


Not Without Food

by caloriebomb



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Belly Kink, F/M, Feeding Kink, Firefighter Steve Rogers, Kink Negotiation, Light Dom/sub, Weight Gain, chubby steve, excessive overeating for pleasure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-02 11:24:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8665735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caloriebomb/pseuds/caloriebomb
Summary: Steve's a fit firefighter who loves rules and regimentation, with a side of domination - until he learns the pleasures of losing control. Starting with his diet.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SevereStorms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SevereStorms/gifts), [wreckingthefinite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreckingthefinite/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Not Without You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6946321) by [SevereStorms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SevereStorms/pseuds/SevereStorms), [wreckingthefinite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreckingthefinite/pseuds/wreckingthefinite). 



> I began to write this as a prequel to the absolutely marvelous "Not Without You," but it got really out of hand really quickly, and diverged so wildly it can no longer be considered in the same universe at all. That said, this first chapter is still solidly within the NWY world, so if you're a fan of that work but not a fan of, say, boy-on-girl action, you could still read Chapter 1 unscathed. Anything beyond Chapter 1 has no relation whatsoever, save for the fact that Steve is a fat firefighter in flannel. Thank you to SevereStorms and Wreckingthefinite for letting me into their amazing story, and my apologies for getting so far away from it.

When he started his new job, Steve didn't have a lot of romantic notions about firefighting. 

Most civilians probably pictured constant roaring blazes and collapsing buildings; blinding smoke and burning rafters crashing to the floor; children screaming, beautiful women fainting... And sure, Steve expected there'd be some of that. But the army had been about 80% sheer boredom contrasted with 20% sheer adrenaline, and he figured the fire department would offer up about the same ratio. 

He wasn't wrong. For every conflagration, there was an old woman who'd locked herself out of her house, and for every frantic call, there was an hour of sitting around the firehouse playing video games or lifting weights. He preferred the interludes of action, but he didn't mind the downtime, and unlike some of the younger firefighters, he'd seen enough shit to understand that “heroism” was a complicated, tangled, even self-serving concept, better left unsought. He didn't join the FDNY looking for glory. He only wanted to help people, in any way he could. 

But he had found glory just the same. 

“No, forget glory,” he said. “I've found Jesus.”

“I'm Jewish,” said Craig Seidman, not turning from the stove. “Try a different compliment.”

Seidman was a funny little guy – short and broad like a bulldog, bearded face set in a permanent scowl, but at heart he was a real softie. And man, could he cook. 

“I swear on the Torah,” Steve said, “this is the best goddamn mac and cheese I've ever had in my life.”

“Wait'll you try his brisket,” said Natasha Romanov, refilling Steve's glass of lemonade. 

It was Steve's first week on the job, and so far it was about what he'd been expecting, save for one thing. 

The food.

Nobody had told him about the food. Nobody'd told him that firefighters eat three meals a day together, sometimes going out, but more often pooling their money and sending emissaries to the grocery store for pounds of meat and piles of cheese and loaves of bread, all ferried back and delivered into the capable hands of the best cooks among them, cooks who strove each day to outdo one another and whip up enormous meals on the industrial kitchen range, meals that were at worst delicious and at best positively gourmet. One week in, and Steve was eating better than he'd ever eaten in his life.

“We do themed months,” Romanov explained as Steve helped himself to another enormous bowl of Seidman' mouthwatering mac and cheese. “This month it's Comfort Food. Next month is South of the Border. Then...” Romanov frowned, considering. “Hey, what'd we decide for October?”

“Butter,” said Clint Barton, from the other end of the table.

“Butter?” Steve said.

“Butter,” Romanov confirmed.

“You think Seidman is good, wait'll you try Hernandez,” Barton said, loudly, so Seidman could hear him over the clatter of ten people clattering spoons and clinking glasses. “Her pancakes put his waffles to shame.”

“She uses a mix!” Seidman said, whirling around, eyes nearly bugging out of his head with indignation. 

“And her pasta sauce,” Barton continued. “Man, it's to die for.”

“It's from a jar!” Seidman said.

“No, she does something special to it,” Barton said. “Something... magical.”

“She throws in a couple pounds of ground beef!” Seidman said. “The shitty factory farm stuff made with sad cows whose hooves are all ingrown like toenails! You know I grow my own tomatoes, my own fucking basil, my own oregano? You know I make my own goddamn sausage?”

Steve hid a grin by spooning another huge bite of the incredible mac and cheese into his mouth. God, it really was amazing. Seriously rich, though, swimming in cream and cheese and buttery breadcrumbs. Two bowls in and he was already damn full – which was unfair, because there was still plenty of mac and cheese left, not to mention a few beautiful blueberry pies that were cooling on the countertop. He mopped up the cheese sauce in his bowl with a piece of Seidman's excellent homemade bread, and determinedly pushed his bowl away. 

“More, Rogers?” Romanov said. 

“No thanks,” Steve said.

“C'mon,” she said, heaping spoonful poised over the empty bowl. 

“No,” Steve said firmly. His tone was directed more at himself than at Romanov, a self-monitoring reminder not to indulge, but he'd inadvertently used what his ex-girlfriend Peggy had called his “Commander Voice,” and Romanov looked taken aback at the peremptory refusal. “Don't want to waste all that work in the weight room, you know?” Steve said, softening his voice and patting his flat stomach.

“But it's okay for my hard work in the kitchen to go to waste?” Seidman demanded.

Steve was, literally, saved by the bell: the alarm rang through the firehouse and suddenly everybody was all action, dinner forgotten, bowls clattering as people pushed back their chairs and leapt to their feet, scrambling for their turnout gear and jostling one another on their way to the engines. 

It turned out to be a 3-car highway collision, four people very seriously injured, one of them a six year-old girl who probably wouldn't make it. She had to be cut from her totaled car while her father screamed her name from his stretcher. Her blood was still smeared on Steve's jacket when they got back to the firehouse, and the crew was quiet as they changed out of their gear and trooped back into the common space. They sat disconsolately around the table, no one speaking.

“Pie?” said Seidman, at last. “There's ice cream, too, and if you give me a couple minutes I could whip up a fudge sauce no problem. We've got cocoa, butter, milk,” he was already rattling around the pots, “sugar, and I bet a little orange zest would bring the whole thing together beautifully. Whipped cream too, maybe?”

It was comfortable, Steve thought, and comforting, to sit around the table eating pie with his team, decompressing. He had a couple slices without thinking about it, and then, after a short mental back-and-forth, had another. He could run it off the next morning, he thought, licking ice cream from his spoon and trying to quash the guilt that was welling up with every bite. So he'd had three pieces of pie, so what? Being lax with himself wasn't putting anyone in danger, and there was no rule saying he had to stop at one serving. Barton'd had two, and even Romanov was reaching for her second helping as Steve watched. 

“Eat, Rogers,” Seidman said gruffly, dumping a fourth slice onto Steve's plate without asking, and Steve couldn't bring himself to refuse. 

:::

Like most firefighters, Steve worked about ten days a month – 24 hours on, then three days off. For the first few weeks, no matter the amount of sleep he'd managed to snag (or, as was more often the case, not) on-duty, he tried to stay awake and in his normal routine for the first day of his off-periods. He'd get off work at the firehouse at 8am and head home for a bowl of yogurt and his daily 5 mile run, followed by an hour of calisthenics and weight training, then he'd sit on the unfairly comfy couch in his apartment and try his damnedest not to succumb to the desperate need for a nap. 

He lived in Bed-Stuy, in a building owned by none other than Clint Barton, who'd quickly become one of his favorite co-workers along with Seidman and Romanov. His studio apartment was just a little bigger than a closet, with a sofa, a TV, a bed, a teeny gas-range stove and a narrow green refrigerator that made hourly clunking noises, but he liked the tight quarters; in a bigger space he would've felt too alone, rattling around from room to room. He was used to living elbow-to-elbow with the men and women under his command, and it was strange to have a space that was only his, a life that was only his. He'd gone from being in charge of quite a few other people to being in charge only of himself, and honestly, the transition was more difficult than he'd expected. 

“Rogers, this is just sad,” said Romanov. It was the first of their three days off, and she and Steve had met up at a taco joint for a late 3pm lunch; a lunch that Steve kept nodding off into, literally. He'd just dropped his head into the hand holding his third taco, and was bemusedly wiping salsa off his cheek. Romanov passed him another napkin. “Why don't you just taking a fucking nap?” she said. “I've been sleeping since the second I got home.”

“Don't need a nap,” Steve mumbled, blinking heavily, trying to keep his eyes open. “If I take a nap I'll never get to sleep on time tonight.”

“On time for what?” Romanov said. 

Steve opened his mouth to respond, then closed it, considering. On time to wake up by 6 and get in his 5 miles, his 100 push-ups, his ab routine. On time to have his kale protein smoothie in the blender and down his throat by 9am. On time to be bored shitless at 10am, wondering what the hell he was going to do with the rest of his day. He pushed the last bite of taco into his mouth instead of answering, and shrugged.

“Cut yourself some slack,” Romanov said, nudging the uneaten half of her steak burrito towards him. Obligingly, he began picking at her leftovers. “Nobody's gonna know if you steal a little mid-day shut-eye,” she said. “And what's more? Nobody cares.”

Steve realized, with a sharp pang, that she was right. Nobody cared. He'd resigned his commission because he was sick of upholding the rules and laws of a government he wasn't certain he believed in, anymore; yet he'd upheld those rules until the very end, and to some extent, was upholding them still. In the army, his men and women had looked to him as an example, looked to him not only to _tell_ them what to do, but to _show_ them, to lead by action and not just word. 

Nobody was looking to him anymore. 

The realization was simultaneously freeing, and depressing. The thing was, Steve liked giving orders; he liked being in control. It was what he was best at. He loved being on a team, too, but he couldn't deny that part of what he loved about a team was knowing how his teammates relied on him, knowing he was necessary, looked-to. He'd known men who excelled at _taking_ orders, men who surrendered their trust so beautifully it felt like a gift – one sergeant in particular came to mind, a pair of smoky-blue eyes focused intently on Steve, the nod of a dark head, the perfect attention with which Barnes had obeyed...

“Rogers,” Romanov said, snapping her fingers, and he jerked his head up, realized he'd zoned out on her completely.

“Sorry,” he said. “Jesus. Guess I am pretty tired.”

“No shit,” she said. Her green eyes were wry but there was concern in them, too, and in the tilt of her head, her red hair spilling over one shoulder. She was beautiful, Romanov; beautiful like a bird of prey, all power and grace. He'd had a brief, lustful crush on her, but he'd realized very quickly that she didn't need anything from anyone, and Steve, well, Steve liked to be needed. 

Steve took the last few bites of her steak burrito, realizing as he did so that he was pretty full; chips and guac, three tacos al pastor, half a burrito, and an extra-large Coke'll do that to a guy, he thought, especially if the guy was half-zombified with exhaustion and not paying much attention to the signals from his body. 

“Romanov,” he said. “You're right. I need a damn nap.”

:::

Later, Steve would find himself thinking that his first nap had opened some kind of floodgate. 

He'd lain down on his couch tentatively and a little shamefully at 4pm, full of tacos and warmed by the late-afternoon light that shone through his scratched window. He didn't take his boots off, but he propped his feet up on the arm of his sofa and propped his head up with a couple of cushions, lay an arm across his full belly and stared at the poodle-shaped water stain on his ceiling. He listened to the sounds of the city outside his window, the busy clatter of a Brooklyn rush hour, and thought to himself: I'll never fall asleep like this. 

Five hours later he blinked awake in a dark room, stomach growling. He stared in astonishment at the time on his phone, then swung his feet to the floor and stretched his cramped body, feeling amazingly relaxed and rejuvenated despite the late hour. Hungry, he called for hot wings and a large pepperoni pizza, then pushed open his window and sucked in a few lungfuls of fresh air, enjoying the cool night breeze on his sleep-heated skin. When the pizza and wings came, he opened a beer and set the box next to him on the couch and turned on the television, flipping around until he found an old black and white movie he remembered watching once with his mother, before she'd died. 

Maybe it was the sense of indulgence left over from his nap, or maybe it was how quickly he became absorbed by the movie, but instead of stopping at three slices of pizza as he normally did, he kept going. He finished off the six wings – easy to excuse, they were all protein – and found himself putting away a fourth slice, then a fifth, then a sixth, carbs and cheese sitting heavy in his belly but the pizza was so good, so greasy and salty and perfect, and he felt so strangely unburdened by his nap, so uncharacteristically uncaring, that he polished off a seventh piece, too, and after that it was a matter of pride. He wasn't going to leave one measly slice alone in the pizza box, after all. No, when Steve Rogers committed to something he went all the way, and so despite the fact that he was uncomfortably stuffed, he picked up the final piece of pizza and folded it in half. He was sweating lightly, now, and it was a bit painful to take a deep breath, his muscled stomach packed so full that it bowed out slightly beneath his fitted t-shirt. He cracked his third beer, letting the cool liquid pour down his throat and into the hot crevices of his stuffed belly, and then he bit into that last slice of dripping pepperoni and polished it off.

“God damn,” he said aloud to his empty living room, impressed with himself. He'd never eaten a whole pizza before, not even on a cheat day. He'd never dared. Which was pretty funny, considering all the things he _had_ dared to do. After what felt like a lifetime at war, eating an entire pizza wasn't exactly medal-worthy. Yet it felt like an accomplishment nevertheless. As if there'd been a wall in his own head, and he'd only just begun to learn how to knock it down. 

:::

“You seem different,” Romanov said a few weeks later, eyeing him as he shoveled down his fourth serving of biscuits and gravy. They'd hit October, the Butter-themed month, and Steve was experimenting with himself, trying on a life without self-imposed rules. It was a life with a lot less running and a lot more sleeping; a lot less weight-lifting and a lot more eating. 

“Different how?” Steve said around a thick mouthful. He reached out to spear another sausage with his fork.

Romanov exchanged a glance with Barton.

“You're, like, chill,” Barton said finally.

“I didn't used to be?” Steve said. He thunked a pad of butter onto one of his biscuits.

“Sir, no sir!” Barton said, in a pretty good imitation of Steve's Commander Voice, and Romanov raised a wary eyebrow, but Steve just chuckled.

“I'm not in the army anymore, you know?” he said. “Bout time I started acting like a civilian. Learn to loosen up.”

“Seems like your pants could use that lesson, too,” Romanov said teasingly, as Steve leaned back and tugged at the waistband of his jeans. 

“Oof. Yeah,” he said, patting his stomach gingerly. “Mighta overdone it.”

“Overdone what?” Seidman said. He thunked an enormous butterscotch pie down right in front of Steve. “Better not tap out now, Rogers. This pie ain't gonna eat itself.”

Steve let out a heavy breath, feeling his stretched stomach expand heavily outwards, and he stared at the pie with mingled longing and uncertainty. Truth was, he was past full – and Romanov had a point about his pants. There was “loosening up” and then there was “letting himself go.” That morning he'd stared at himself shirtless in the mirror and tried not to panic over the fact that his abs undoubtedly had less definition than before his little experiment started. There was a tiny pinch of softness beneath his belly button he'd never seen before. It'd only been a few weeks, not even quite a month, and already his body was beginning to show signs of change. But he wasn't ready yet to return to his narrow world of alarm clocks and pedometers and counting reps. Soon; he'd start training again soon. But for now...

“Load 'er up,” he said resignedly, pushing his plate forward, and Seidman cut him an enormous slice. As he pushed the first delicious bite into his mouth, he caught a glimpse of Romanov from the corner of his eye. She was grinning. 

:::

Fall sped by in a blur of butter, fire, and, surprisingly, parties. There was the station Halloween party, at which he drank quite a lot of beer and ate quite a lot of candy – so much, in fact, that he had to loosen his belt a notch mid-party, to Romanov's hoots of delight; then Seidman hosted an Octoberfest dinner, where Steve managed to polish off nearly an entire package of Bratwurst by himself; and in early November there was Barton's “the building that drinks together stays together” party, otherwise known as “the first time Steve Rogers got well and truly wasted since he was twenty-three.”

“Rogers,” Romanov said, when she found him swaying over the snack table, trying to scoop salsa onto a chip with a very unsteady hand. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Six pack,” Steve ticked off on his fingers, “three cupsa cider, some of that punch, s'good, you should try it, got some kinda sheber – sherba – sherbret – innit...” He hiccuped. “Buttered rum...”

“What's this?” Romanov said, taking his current drink from his hand and giving it a sniff.

“Hot chocl't,” Steve hiccuped. “With peppermint snaps. Snops. Schnapps.” He stuffed a handful of M&Ms into his mouth. Romanov gave him his drink back. “You look nice,” he said around the candy, because she did, all soft red hair and blurry curves.

“That girl from 4B was all over you earlier,” Romanov said. “You didn't seem to think she looked nice.”

“Not my type,” Steve said, chewing an Oreo. 

“What, female?” Romanov said baldly.

Steve blinked at her, then shrugged. “Not too picky 'bout that,” he said. “She was... sweet.”

“You don't like them sweet?”

Steve wasn't so drunk that he couldn't manage a wink. “I like 'em sweet 'n salty.”

Romanov laughed at that, and then, unasked, she slid the last piece of pumpkin pie onto a paper plate and handed it to him. He beamed a thank you at her and dug clumsily at it with a plastic fork, though he was full up to his eyes with food and drink. He could feel the bloated stretch of his incredibly full belly, pressing up against the soft fabric of his t-shirt and straining uncomfortably at the tightening waist of his pants. It was sloshy with alcohol and packed firm with cake and pie and pasta and chicken and nachos and everything else he'd eaten that night, a little of everything, no holding back. 

“Here,” Romanov said, as he licked his lips and put down the empty paper plate. He looked up blearily and found her holding out a huge stack of sugar cookies on an orange napkin, leftover from Halloween. He muffled a discreet burp with the back of his hand, then took the cookies, a little bewildered but unable somehow to turn down her offer. He ate them one by one, six in total, dunking them into the dregs of his boozy hot chocolate, hiccuping painfully between bites, his stuffed stomach lurching. 

“Ugh,” he said, brushing crumbs from his fingers. Romanov was watching him, her own drink forgotten in her hand. “Full,” he offered, resting a careful hand on the throbbing curve of his belly – and it was a curve, he realized. He was so full it was an unmistakable arc. For some reason, it thrilled him a little to think that Romanov could see it, could see the effects of his indulgence, his laxity. 

“You can really put it away,” Romanov said, her tone silky, admiring. “I haven't seen anyone eat like that since my last girlfriend. And that was only in the bedroom.”

Then, before Steve could even begin to process that, she'd disappeared back into the party, and the sweet girl from 4B was coming towards him with a plate of brownies, looking hopeful.

:::

It wasn't just that his abs were losing definition, Steve thought. It went beyond softened muscles, and into actual softness. 

He was shirtless in front of his bedroom mirror, after a breakfast of waffles and whipped cream – plus a couple fried eggs, a side of hashbrowns, a glazed donut, and a bagel and cream cheese. He'd come home stuffed nearly to the point of pain, replaying the meal in his mind and trying to figure out where he'd gone wrong. He'd ordered the waffles first, three of them, and had polished them off so quickly that he'd ordered the eggs and potatoes without thinking about it. He'd been full by the end of his second course, no doubt about it, but the waitress had told him the donuts had just come out of the frier, and who was he to turn down a piping hot donut? 

It was the bagel that threw him for a loop. 

He'd been walking home the three blocks from the diner, slow and sated, jeans button undone beneath his untucked t-shirt and heavy jacket, tummy packed tight and round, and he had passed his favorite bagel shop. He'd paused before the door, sniffing that doughy scent with appreciation, one hand patting the belly that was still gurgling in an effort to digest what he'd eaten so far, and he'd thought: Why not? Just, why not. 

As soon as he swallowed his last bite of bagel, he knew it had been a mistake. His stomach, which before had been bloated and pleasantly aching, felt so stuffed that his lungs felt squashed, his breath coming short. The pleasant ache had turned into a cramping pain, and his unbuttoned jeans felt unbelievably tight, constricting. He'd dragged himself the last block in considerable discomfort, huffing a little, and he'd taken the elevator the three flights up to his apartment, which was a first even in his new lazy lifestyle. He'd taken off his pants even before he'd padded into his room to throw himself on the bed, gripping his stomach and rubbing it firmly as it creaked and moaned.

Now he was in front of the mirror, staring two months of pure gluttony in the face.

He'd put on weight. That was only to be expected, and he'd been prepared for his body to settle. He hadn't, however, been prepared for the sight of a real belly starting in, rounding out from under his pecs, hadn't been prepared for the way his hips now curved slightly over the waistband of his boxers, the way his chest was ever-so-faintly squishier. His arms were still huge with muscle, since he hadn't given up weight training at the station, of course, and when he flexed, his chest swelled impressively, but his abs were gone. It wasn't that noticeable when he was dressed, he didn't think, though his stomach had started to push out against his shirts, a faint strain to the material, and he'd found himself pulling them down more often; and his jeans were blatantly too-small, not only around his waist but around his thighs, too, pulling across his ass. 

“Well, hell,” he said aloud to his reflection. His stomach looked particularly round right now, though he knew that was mostly bloat and would go down, and he palmed it gently, thumbed at his stretched belly-button. The skin was very warm and soft. He stood to the side, looking at the way his stomach was starting to bow out over his boxers, and figured he had two options, here.

He could go back to his rules, to his training and schedule and self-imposed limitations, and probably lose this incipient gut with a month of hard work – or, he could keep doing what he wanted, and accept the consequences as they came.

Even as he considered, he knew what he would choose. He had tasted freedom, quite literally, and the thought of going back to the way he had been exhausted him. He was happier now, and he thought he was a better friend, too, a better teammate when he wasn't holding himself to impossible standards. 

“Looks like you're sticking around,” he said, patting his stomach ruefully. He was sure to plateau soon, anyway – he wouldn't just keep gaining forever. He knew he'd gained a little over fifteen pounds already, and he figured he'd max out around twenty, give or take. Twenty pounds was no big deal. He could accept twenty pounds.

:::

By the week before Thanksgiving, he'd gained twenty-eight. He knew because he weighed himself surreptitiously at the station, after he'd outgrown all his pants. He'd been 190 of sheer muscle when he'd joined the FDNY and was now was almost over 220, heavier than he'd ever been before. And it wasn't muscle, either. He'd bought new jeans but not new shirts, figuring that was a ways away, still, but just that morning he'd reached for his helmet on an upper shelf and when he'd lowered his arms, his t-shirt stayed stuck somewhere around his belly button. He'd had to tug it down redfaced before anyone caught sight of the pudging swell of lower belly it had revealed – not that his crew had missed his new pounds. 

“C'mon, Rogers,” Seidman said at lunch. “Kill this last burger for me, would you? Add it to that spare tire you're working on.”

“Rogers, you'll finish off these meatballs, right?” Hernandez demanded. “A growing boy like you?”

“This gravy turned out kinda thick,” Barton apologized. “Like Rogers, here.”

“Ha ha,” Steve said good-naturedly, reaching for the gravy boat. 

He had accepted Barton's invitation to Thanksgiving dinner at his apartment, where he'd been pleased to find that Romanov was in attendance, too, along with a crowd of people Steve recognized from around the building, and a few strangers. Barton's apartment was packed, and there was a mind-boggling amount of food spread out over the table – which was, in fact, four tables pushed together, every inch covered in hot dishes. 

Steve had served himself a glorious plate heaped high with mashed potatoes, stuffing, turkey, and several buttered rolls, all of it covered in gravy, and he dug in with gusto.

“No green beans?” Romanov said, at his side. “No peas?”

“Nope,” Steve said. “Waste of space. I'd take some of those sweet potatoes with marshmallows, though.”

Natasha passed them over, and Steve added them to his pile of food. He was planning to cut back a little after Thanksgiving – not a diet or anything, and he certainly wasn't going to start working out as vigorously as he once had, but he was going to try and watch himself a bit more. Seconds, but no thirds, that kind of thing. So today was kind of his last hurrah. 

It had to be, because he couldn't button his jeans. 

They'd been too small for a few weeks, but he'd been able to get them done up by lying down flat on his bed and sucking in his belly, and while they hadn't been exactly comfortable, at least he could pretend they still fit, more or less. Then, just yesterday, he simply had not been able to get them closed. It was a feat of physical impossibility, and he'd sat up on his bed, a little dismayed, watching the way his belly rounded out between the flaps of his pants, like it was happy to be free.

Now he was in a pair of – very nice – black sweatpants, pulled lower than normal to accommodate his new pooch, and he was wearing his best sweater to compensate for the pants; a grey cashmere that had always showed off his slim waist and broad shoulders, but now was pulled taut across his middle and showed every wrinkle in the too-tight button-up he'd layered beneath it. 

Three plates in, he was truly regretting the button-up. He could feel the buttons straining, and the stiff cotton was uncomfortably constricting around his belly, which was definitely a bit larger than it had been before he'd started eating. He swiped up the last bite of mashed potatoes with a piece of buttered bread, and sat back in his chair to tug at the waist of his sweats, which didn't do much good. It was his stupid shirt that was the problem – he could feel the marching seam of buttons digging into the curve of his belly. Under the pretense of adjusting his pants, he wedged his hand up beneath the shirt and gave his lower belly a subtle rub of commiseration, ran his thumb consolingly over a divot below his navel where the seam was pressing in. 

“God, I'm full,” Romanov said, and pushed her plate towards Steve. “You want this?”

He dropped his hand guiltily and glanced over to see what looked like an untouched plate of food: a huge mound of mashed potatoes, a pile of stuffing, a glistening lump of cranberry sauce, several thick slices of turkey, and a cascade of gravy. A thickly-buttered slice of homemade bread perched atop it all.

“Eyes bigger than your stomach?” he asked, and let her set the plate down atop his empty one.

“Something like that,” she said, as he leaned forward to start in on the stuffing. 

By the time he'd swallowed his final bite of turkey, he was flushed and short of breath. Fullness combined with his tight shirt made it difficult to breathe as deeply as he wanted, and he sat for a moment, sipping air unobtrusively, plucking hopelessly at his sweater, trying to get a grip on the shirt underneath to rearrange it somehow, but no cigar. 

“Is that cashmere?” Romanov said. “Beautiful.”

“Thanks,” Steve said shortly, trying to conceal how out of breath he was. 

“You've got that shirt underneath it, though,” she said disapprovingly. “When I wear cashmere, I like it right against my skin.”

Steve couldn't help but conjure up this mental image, imagining the softness of a sweater against the softness of her skin, sliding over the soft curves of her waist and caressing her breasts... 

“It's hot in here,” he said, trying to explain away the blush he knew was suffusing his already-pink cheeks. “Are you hot? Too hot for two layers, you're right.”

“So take off your sweater,” Romanov suggested. 

“Rather take off the shirt,” Steve said. “The sweater, uh, the sweater makes the outfit.”

“Right, cashmere and sweatpants,” Romanov said, poking his plumping thigh. “Fresh off the runway.”

Steve let out a breathless laugh, but even laughter was curtailed by the constriction of his shirt. “Fuck it,” he said, mostly to himself. Then to Romanov, “Be right back.”

He pushed his chair out from the table and climbed slowly to his feet, his stomach letting out a gurgle as he stood, though at least his tummy unrounded a bit and his shirt allowed him another inch or so to breathe. He plodded to Clint's bathroom, locked the door, and stripped off his sweater. He unbuttoned his shirt quickly, feeling more relief with every button he unfastened, his belly surging out as if it'd been waiting, and when he'd unfastened the last button he peeled it off his shoulders – too tight around his arms, too – and let it fall to a heap on the bathroom floor. There were red lines on his torso from where the tight shirt had bit into him, and he winced, took a moment just to give himself a good long bellyrub, fingers digging into the taut skin, helping him digest the tons of food he'd just put away. He had to make room for dessert, after all. 

He put his sweater back on, shirtless underneath it now, and bent to hide his button-up in Clint's towel cabinet. Then he took a deep breath – much easier now – and faced himself in the mirror. 

The sweater did absolutely nothing to conceal how full he was. In fact, without the confining effects of the button-up, his belly looked noticeably bloated, curved and round, his navel a shadow beneath the soft fabric, and his pecs looking thicker than normal. He looked unmistakeably chunky. But god, Romanov was right: the cashmere against his stretched skin felt amazing, luxurious, and so much more comfortable than his shirt. He was cooler, too, and the sheen of sweat that had misted his forehead during dinner had disappeared. 

He went back into the dining room much happier, only to find that someone – or many someones – had cleared the table of dinner food and set out dessert. And what dessert there was. Pumpkin pie, pecan, coconut cream, carrot cake, apple crumble, quivering bowls of whipped cream, several gallons of vanilla ice cream... Despite how full he already was, and how bloated and round he felt, Steve's mouth began watering. He snagged a chocolate chip cookie as he headed back to his seat, and had already finished it by the time he lowered himself back next to Romanov.

She eyed him, then grinned. “What'd I tell you?”

“Feels great,” Steve admitted, smoothing his hands down his front, letting them linger a moment on his stuffed stomach. Then he reached for the pumpkin pie. The slice looked lonely sitting there in the center of his big plate, so he helped himself to a slice of pecan, too, and a couple scoops of ice cream. Some whipped cream, a chunk of apple cake. What looked like blueberry cobbler. Before he knew it, his dessert plate was stacked just as high as his dinner plate had been, and he hovered his fork around happily, not even certain where to start. 

A couple slices of pie later, Steve gratefully accepted coffee from a young woman going around with a potful. He held the warm mug to the side of his belly, which was aching badly, and with his free hand he started on the cake, dragging it through the puddle of melted ice cream. He was out of breath again.

“Whew,” he said, and though he hadn't meant to speak aloud, Romanov glanced over. 

“You all right, there?” she said. 

“Fuckin' full,” Steve said, prodding his belly experimentally. It felt taut as a drum. 

“Well, you're almost done,” Romanov said kindly. “Just a few more bites.”

“Yeah,” Steve said, eyeing the slice of cake and stack of shortbread cookies sitting innocently on his plate. He felt a little embarrassed by how much she'd seen him eat that evening – and a little embarrassed by how round his tummy looked just now, sitting pushed-out and proud beneath his sweater. “It's all so good, you know?” he said lamely.

“Have you tried the butterscotch cookies?” she said, and before he could answer, she dropped one onto his plate. “One more won't make a difference,” she said.

“Right,” Steve said, crunching into the big cookie. “Damn. That is good.”

“There'll be plenty left over, too,” Romanov said. “Don't forget to take some home.”

:::

Between Thanksgiving, Thanksgiving leftovers, and a stream of Christmas parties, Steve accidentally put on another ten pounds by the end of December. He ordered himself a few new pairs of jeans online as a Christmas present to himself, swearing even as he clicked PAY that he'd drop this weight and be back to his old size in no time, but even he didn't believe himself. He'd put on nearly forty pounds, now, and he couldn't hide it anymore – not from himself, not from his friends. 

He could see people looking at him, glancing at his belly then quickly away, and he knew he should be ashamed... But he wasn't. He didn't mind. In fact, he almost liked it, the lingering glances people gave him as he ate twice what he should, the raised eyebrows when he put away three burgers in one sitting. 

The extra forty pounds had settled all over his body, but he could feel it mostly in his belly, which was suddenly very prominent and called attention to itself even when Steve was alone. He wasn't used to thinking about his body as a jumble of separate parts, but his stomach seemed to have a mind of its own – it was a firm weight around his middle that had begun to sway him forward ever-so-slightly, nearly brushed his thighs when he sat down, was always bumping into things and catching crumbs and grumbling when it was hungry and groaning when it was too-full.

Usually, it was too full. 

“You just ate half a pan of lasagna,” Romanov said, serving him another enormous portion. “A little more won't hurt.”

“Yes, it will,” Steve said fervently, but he forked himself a cheesy bite and couldn't help but hum with pleasure. He was at Romanov's house for dinner, just the two of them – Barton had bailed at the last minute, and Steve, in a strange fit of nerves at being left alone with Romanov, really had eaten half the pan by himself, plus about half a baguette smothered in butter. And oh, he was feeling the strain. He put down his fork for a moment and tugged at the hem of his henley, which was inching upwards over his packed tummy, and he used the motion as an excuse to give his stomach a soothing scratch. It was very firm, though there was a layer of softness that gave beneath his fingers, and as always he was surprised to find how much of it there was. “Jesus,” he said, almost to himself. 

“Pretty full, huh?” Romanov said, flashing her small white teeth. She leaned forward to refill his wine glass, and he couldn't help but eye the hint of creamy cleavage that peeked from beneath her tight v-neck. 

“Yeah,” Steve said, picking his fork back up. He resisted the urge to rub his stomach with his free hand, though he had a brief flash of fantasy: Romanov bent over him, those gorgeous breasts on display, her hand stroking his stuffed flesh, her sultry voice telling him to keep eating. He shook his head to clear it and took an enormous, distracting bite of lasagna. That wasn't the way you were supposed to think about your friends. 

Romanov leaned back in her chair with a yawn, stretching her arms over her head like a satisfied cat, arching her back, and Steve forgot to chew for a moment. 

The problem was, he needed to get laid. He'd had a few one-or-two night stands since moving back to New York, mostly off the internet – not that he'd ever had trouble picking people up in bars, but online it was easier to find like-minded people, and Steve was a man of specific predilections. He liked to be in charge. Vanilla sex was fine, but it never scratched the same itch for him, never filled him with the euphoria that came from domination, from telling someone what to do and watching them comply, completely at his mercy, a mercy that was strict and strong but tender, too. He loved watching someone come apart at his command. Loved giving another person a chance to surrender themselves completely, to cede all control, to grant him the greatest gift of all: trust. Steve Rogers had a bulletproof kink for trust. 

Yet lately he'd been having fantasies that were completely new to him. Fantasies that involved submitting. Especially when he was so full, like he was now – as if the stretch of his belly rewired his mind in some way, rewired his cock. He'd sit alone in his apartment packing away a pizza and an order of wings and he'd imagine someone at his side egging him on, someone lithe and slender and strong, a little mouthy, maybe – someone who would tease him about how much he was eating, someone who would press more food on him long after he was full, someone who would put their hands on his full belly and ride him while he lay back, too lazy and stuffed to do any of the work himself. In these fantasies, he imagined himself giving orders... but he imagined taking orders, too. And that was a first. 

Usually his fantasy partner was male – dark-haired, light-eyed, delicate and strong, bold but obedient... 

But sometimes his partner was a curvy, red-haired women with narrowed eyes and a smirk on her full lips. 

Romanov was smirking at him now, and Steve hastily swallowed the bite of lasagna that was sitting forgotten in his cheek. He shoved another bite into his mouth and let out a small huff of air that came out more like a grunt than he'd intended. 

“You're coming in the for the calendar shoot at the end of the month, right?” Romanov said. “I think Barton's got you down as July. He was mumbling something about the American flag.”

Steve nearly choked. The Fight Fire With Fire Calendar was a yearly fundraiser, featuring twelve full-color pages of half-naked firefighters – and this year, Steve Rogers was supposed to be among them. He'd let himself be harassed into signing up last spring, and had completely forgotten about it until this moment. His horror must have shown on his face, because Romanov raised a delicate eyebrow.

“Cold feet?” she said. “Don't be nervous. The shoot itself is a lot of fun – our photographer really knows how to make people feel comfortable. I've been doing it for years.”

“I, uh,” Steve said. “I...” He was suddenly, shockingly aware of how full he was, of the uncomfortable constriction of his new waistband, of the bloated press of his stomach against his henley, and he glanced down automatically, noting with horror that his deepening belly-button was visible below the fabric and that his tummy was domed firmly over his jeans, obscuring the zipper, a teeny strip of bare belly pudging from below the tight hem. He tried to suck it in, and it barely moved. He knew he'd put on weight, forty whole pounds of it, and he knew his body was changing, but it wasn't until this moment that the shocking truth came crashing down around his shoulders. He was getting fat.

“I can't do the calendar,” Steve said, a little desperately. “I signed up this summer, but I... I don't look – I don't look like --” He stopped, flummoxed. He'd never been self-conscious before and wasn't certain how to deal with the feeling. 

“You look fantastic,” Romanov said, with no hint of her usual smirk. She seemed utterly sincere. “I mean, sure, you've gained a little weight, but it looks great on you.”

“It's two weeks away,” Steve said, “I could probably drop some --”

“Steve, don't you dare,” Romanov said, eyes flashing, and Steve looked up, surprised. It was perhaps the first time she'd used his first name, and the sound of it sent a strange rush of blood through his body. “We've got plenty of abs. Mine, for instance. We need some beef.”

Despite his discomfort, Steve laughed. “And I'm the beef?”

“Are you ever,” Romanov said. 

Steve leaned back in his chair, one hand straying to pat the side of his overstuffed belly, though when he realized what he was doing he dropped his hand hastily. “You'll be in it, too?” he said. 

“I'm January,” Romanov said. “They're going to do something with white fur.”

Steve pictured a soft swath of fur over a full breast, and swallowed. 

“Here, finish your lasagna, and while we eat dessert I'll show you the past calendars,” Romanov said, and Steve picked his fork back up dutifully, and dug back in.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where it diverges from NWY. Warnings for soooooo mucccchhhhh eeeeeattttinnggg.

Dessert was brownies and ice cream, and Steve followed Romanov into the living room, carrying his heavy bowl and noticing with some dismay that Romanov had served him a rather intimidating amount – two brownies and what looked like nearly an entire pint of cookie dough. He lowered himself down onto the sofa with a sigh, big tummy mounding up in front of him, and Romanov curled up next to him with a stack of calendars, one of her sharp elbows digging into his swollen side, but the pressure felt kind of good. 

“See, here's Barton as February,” Romanov said, gesturing to Barton wearing what looked like a white loincloth and shooting a bow and arrow into a red heart. “And there's me as June.”

“Jesus christ,” Steve said around a huge mouthful of brownie. In the photo, Romanov was wearing nothing but tiny blue bikini bottoms, an armful of flowers barely covering her breasts. Steve was glad that he was already pink from overeating so she wouldn't see his blush. He spooned ice cream quickly into his mouth to distract himself, though he was so full he was feeling short of breath. 

The next calendar was even worse. Romanov was October, lying in a pile of autumn leaves that strategically covered her peaches-and-cream skin, her red hair in disarray, her bright eyes staring up into the camera, full lips turned in a sultry pout. 

“You okay there?” Romanov said, as Steve accidentally swallowed his last bite of brownie without chewing.

“Ugh,” Steve coughed, both hands flying to his painfully packed belly, wincing as it jolted while he gasped for breath. “Ugh, just – just really – full.”

“You don't want another brownie, then?” Romanov said, reaching out absentmindedly to tug the hem of his shirt down where it had started to ride up over the chunky swell of his hip. Her fingers brushed his bare, swollen skin, and he shivered at the light touch. 

“No,” Steve said. “I couldn't.”

“Oh, I think you could,” Romanov said. She gave the side of his firm, round belly a light poke, then a pinch below his belly button, where he was softest. “See? You've still got some room.”

“I'm stuffed,” he protested, embarrassed but weirdly pleased, too, to have her attention on him.

“I see that,” Romanov said, and suddenly one of her small hands came up to caress his jawline. “You're getting soft around the face, too, have you noticed?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, seeing no reason to lie. 

Romanov pressed assessing fingers beneath his chin, where he'd noticed an unprecedented gathering of flesh. “Mmm hmm,” she said. “Nothing compared to this, of course,” she said, and suddenly delivered a ringing slap to his belly.

“Oh,” Steve gasped – partially in surprise, partially in pain, and partially in arousal. He had no time to sort out his feelings before Romanov was on her feet, disappearing into the kitchen. A feeling of anticipation, excitement, and a little bit of fear began to fill his chest, and part of him knew that she would return with the pan of brownies. And she did. 

She sank back down onto the couch beside him, her feet tucked gracefully beneath her so she was slightly higher than Steve, kneeling while he was reclined deeply in the cushions, trying to give his stuffed belly as much room as possible. It was throbbing gently in time with his heart, and he watched in horrified fascination as Romanov picked up a thick piece of brownie with her red-painted fingernails and brought it to his lips.

He looked at her, at her calm, measured gaze, at the slight flush on her high cheekbones, and he opened his mouth. The bite went down slowly, but no sooner had he swallowed with difficulty than she had another big bite ready and waiting. 

“Ungh,” he said. “Romanov, I --”

“Swallow,” she commanded, and he did. “Good,” she purred, and fed him another. And another. And another. She kept going, didn't stop. 

“Christ,” Steve moaned, arching his back, trying in vain to get more space for his swollen tummy, the waistband of his new jeans suddenly intolerable and his cock starting to swell, too. He'd never felt like this, before – never felt so round and heavy and lazy, never been at someone else's mercy like this. It went against all his sexual instincts, and yet he was completely aroused.

“Are you full?” Romanov said. “How full?”

“So fucking full,” Steve said, wriggling deeper into the couch, his face pinched in discomfort. His stomach was rounder than he'd yet seen it, his shirt inching up to show a slice of chunky underbelly that was rubbed red from his tight pants. He arched his back again and Romanov reached out to tug his shirt down for him, tickling that sensitive peek of stretched-out skin. 

“Have some more,” Romanov said, her breath hot in his ear, and he groaned as she tucked a thick chocolate bite into his panting mouth. He let it sit there for a moment before he began to chew, exhausted from fullness, but she didn't even let him swallow before she was pushing more brownie between his lips, and more, until his mouth was so packed he worried he was in danger of choking. Romanov ran a delicate red fingernail across a crumb on his lip, and brought it to her own mouth, sucking as she stared at him through lowered lashes. He worked determinedly through his enormous mouthful, and when he'd gotten it all down he began to hiccup painfully.

“Oh--” hiccup “shit--” hiccup “I'm --” hiccup “full.”

“Can you take a little bit more?” Romanov said. “Three more big bites and then I'll let you stop?”

“Fuck,” Steve hiccuped. “Yes. Yeah, I can –” hiccup “--oh god --”

She wasted no time, and broke off another huge piece of brownie. He opened his mouth, more submissive than he'd ever been before, and she lay the brownie on his tongue. He hiccuped around it, then chewed, no longer self-conscious about the grunts and gasps he couldn't help but make. She fed him another bite, and then another, and then finally she put down the pan of brownies and Steve panted for air, his eyes slamming shut in pain each time a hiccup shook his belly, which was now so full it was hard to the touch. 

“Poor baby,” murmured Romanov, sliding her palm across the hot, overtaxed skin. “This shirt is so tight. These pants are gonna be tight soon, too. Bet everything's tight, huh?”

“Yeah,” Steve gasped. 

“Why is that?” Romanov said. “Why's everything getting so tight? Have you been eating too much, Steve? Have you been greedy?” She ran her fingers across the taut jut of bare belly that had worked its way out from under his shirt again. “Bet you couldn't lose this now if you tried,” she said. “Bet you like being greedy, eating everything you want and more. Do you like it?”

“Yes,” Steve hiccuped. 

“Look at this gut,” she said, patting it. “Everyone can see how much you love to eat. Everyone can see how out of control you are. The evidence is growing. You've already outgrown your pants, haven't you? These are new, aren't they?”

Steve pushed his stomach into her touch, craving pressure. “Yes.”

“Are your boxers tight?” she said. “Let's take a look.” And slowly, slowly she unbuttoned his jeans, tugging them down past his hips. Steve could barely move to help her, though he shifted with a groan. “Tsk tsk,” she said, running her fingers over the angry red lines the elastic of his boxers made digging into his pudging hips. She closed her hand around his cock, and he made a low sound of desperation at the longed-for contact. She moved up and around so she was straddling one of his thighs, her knee wedged closely against his balls, and he was completely vulnerable to her. Too full to move, her knee against his balls, and she began to grind on his thigh with slow, unhurried movements. She was in a dress with only panties underneath, and he could feel the wet heat of her even through the leg of his jeans. 

“Do you want me to take my dress off?” she asked.

“Please,” he said. 

“You'll have to eat another bite of brownie for me,” she said, and he nodded deliriously, gagged it down while she leaned back and pulled her dress over her head in one fluid motion. She had no bra, and her gorgeous white breasts were suddenly right there in front of Steve's hazy eyes. She bent over the bloat of his belly and he mouthed gratefully at the pink nipple she presented to his lips, flicking his tongue over it, sucking, giving her just a tiny bit of teeth. She let out a soft noise of pleasure and pulled away, her breast dark at the tip with chocolate from Steve's mouth. She was grinding on him faster, now, her knee pressing deliciously against his balls with every thrust, her free hand kneading his cock, which was now fully hard and straining against the material of his boxers. 

He bucked against her touch, and she said, sharply, “Don't move.”

He went completely still. 

“Do you want me to take your cock out?” she said.

“Please,” he begged, and opened his mouth so she could clog it again with brownie. He was rewarded with the feeling of her pulling down his boxers, and as he chewed open-mouthed he watched her lick a long, wet stripe up her palm before she reached down and finally enveloped his leaking cock. She ground on him in rhythm with her strokes, her panties soaked, now, and he reached for her but she slapped his hand away.

“No touching,” she said, and Steve fisted his hands at his sides, watching the bob of her beautiful breasts and trying to follow orders, trying not to move his hips, his belly so full and hot and painful that the counterpoint of pleasure from his cock was delicious, so delicious that he'd started moaning loudly. Romanov came first – he felt her legs clench around his thigh, throwing her head back, her gorgeous mouth wide, eyes shut, her hand going slack around his dick as she shuddered and gasped soundlessly. She breathed heavily for a few moments, her forehead bent forward to press against his, and then she turned all her attention to Steve, jacking him off with slick twists of her hand.

“Come,” she said at last, and he did, crying out and spurting across her hand and his own round belly. The orgasm shook him to the core with pleasure and completely stole his breath, and for a few long, boneless minutes, all he could do was wheeze and moan and clutch at his churning stomach, which felt hugely swollen beneath his fingers. Finally, when he could open his eyes, he did so, and found Romanov staring down at him fondly. 

“You'll stay here tonight,” she said. “Can you move to the bedroom?”

Steve could, barely – he felt completely drained and sated and still so exceedingly full that he had to move slowly, hoisting himself up from the couch with groan of pain, then standing for a moment, getting his balance, both hands on the small of his back as if to counterbalance the immensely packed stomach that was now making agonized noises. He cradled it gingerly with one hand, shuffling after Natasha like an old man, pants pulled up but still unbuttoned, his poor wailing belly jutting out hugely between the flaps, bigger than it had ever been before. 

Her bedroom was small but luxurious, and he collapsed on top of her white feather comforter, curling onto his side and supporting his throbbing stomach with both hands. 

“C'mon,” she said, completely gentle. “Let's get you out of these tight clothes. You were so good for me tonight. So good.”

Steve let her untangle him from his shirt, let her unlace his boots and take off his socks and pull his pants completely off, leaving him in only his boxers, on his back now, his white tummy sticking up obscenely into the air, almost shiny with how taut it was stretched. Romanov disappeared for a moment then returned with a hot washcloth, which she draped across the fat bloat of gut and began to gently rub Steve down. He sighed with how good it felt and Romanov bent to press a series of small kisses into his shoulder. He'd never been on the receiving end of aftercare, and he was surprised at how much he needed it, how much he appreciated her soft ministrations and her low murmur of, “Good boy, so good.”

He fell asleep to the sound of her voice, and the low gurgle of his own gut.

:::

He awoke to the smell of sugar.

“Hi,” Romanov said, when Steve opened his eyes. Her head was on the pillow next to his, and he smiled to see her sleep-swollen eyes and messy hair. She was in nothing but a white tank top and a pair of tiny black panties. 

“You look beautiful,” he said.

“I woke up like this,” she deadpanned, and Steve laughed, though it turned into a wince. 

“Fuck,” he said, reaching down to touch his belly gingerly.

“Still sore?” Romanov said sympathetically. 

“Think I pulled a muscle,” Steve joked. 

“You can handle some breakfast, though,” Romanov said confidently. “I ordered donuts. God bless New York delivery.”

Steve's stomach gave a terrified rumble, but his mouth began to water. So that was the sweet smell he'd noticed. 

“Here, sit up a bit,” Romanov said, and fluffed some pillows behind Steve's back as he hauled himself upright, noticing with some alarm how huge his belly still looked. It hovered over the waistband of his tight boxers, and he wondered how much he'd need to gain before it began to settle decidedly on his thighs. Romanov, as if thinking the same, gave his underbelly a firm pat, then gripped a soft handful of pudge. “You're still bloated, but you've got much more room than last night,” she said. She reached for the box of a dozen donuts on the nightstand. “Powdered sugar?” she said. “Boston cream? Jelly?”

“Any of those,” Steve said.

“I guess it doesn't matter which we start with,” she said. “Because you're going to eat them all.”

“I am?” Steve said, his voice muffled with the bite of powdered sugar donut she'd pressed into his mouth. “Romanov, I...” he trailed off, patting the still-tender mound of belly that sat before him. 

“Steve,” she chided. “I know you're not one to disobey orders. Here, open.”

Like a baby bird, he let her lower another bite of donut between his lips. The first donut went down pretty easily, four big bites and it was gone, and the second wasn't hard either. The third, a jelly donut, proved messy and difficult, but Romanov wouldn't let him wipe the sticky red goo from his chin. The fourth, a Boston cream, spurted yellow custard down onto the crest of his stomach, which was tightening up again. Steve chewed his fifth, another jelly, and watched as some jelly dripped down his puffy pec and came to rest next to the custard on the arc of belly that was beginning to shelf out. He had a roll there, now; a crease of fat when he sat down, creases below each pec and a crease where his belly rolled out in front of him. 

“How do you feel?” Romanov asked, picking up the sixth, another Boston cream. 

“Getting full,” Steve said, hovering a hand over his stomach, longing to pat it, but at a look from Romanov he lowered his hand guiltily. The next bite he took, however, was accompanied by Romanov's own hand pressed into the aching side of his gut, and he sighed happily around his mouthful of donut as she began rubbing his belly firmly. By the seventh donut, he was getting wheezy like he had the night before, and his stomach felt as if it were straining towards something, bulging outwards as he struggled for a deep breath. “Phew,” he gasped. He was sweating a little, and Romanov reached out to pinch one of his nipples, cupping his pec and fondling it as he might a woman's breast. He felt his nipple grow hard even as he blushed. 

“Number nine,” she said. “You're doing so well.” She stroked a circle around his stretched belly button. “So bloated,” she said, patting him. “We've both got the next three days off, you know. I don't see any reason to let this bloat go down at all.”

“Mmf,” Steve said. His mouth was full. He pulled in a noisy breath through his nose, and Romanov fed him another bite, custard oozing down his chin. Romanov swiped a finger through the jelly on his stomach and offered it to him to suck. He did so, loving the way her slim finger felt in his mouth. His belly was starting to throb, a feeling he was growing used to and even starting to like, the way it pulsed and stretched as he continued to eat. Romanov pushed more donut into his mouth, and he stopped chewing to let out a low, rumbling belch. 

“Ten,” she said, holding up a chocolate glazed. “Open wide – this is going down in one bite.”

Steve's eyes grew as huge as his mouth, but she folded the donut in half and began squishing it between his lips, packing his cheeks full of the soft pastry, jamming it into every corner. “Good,” she said, and leaned to suck on his neck as he began the work of chewing. It took a while, and bits of donut fell from his mouth, some bouncing off his protesting stomach and some coming to rest on his new shelf. Finally he'd choked it all down, gasping for air and arching his back against the discomfort of fullness. His fingers twitched at his sides, desperate to come up and soothe his aching belly, which was beginning to squeak and gurgle. His cock was hard, as swollen and straining as his stomach. 

Romanov took a moment before beginning to feed him the eleventh donut. She ran her fingernails across his throbbing gut, then took off her shirt with one languorous movement and pressed her naked breasts against his arm so she could murmur in his ear, “Do you want to fuck me?”

“Oh god, yes,” Steve babbled. She ripped off a bite of donut and had him begin to chew while she tugged down his boxers so his cock could spring free, the head bouncing against his jut of round underbelly in a way he absolutely never imagined he'd experience. She took off her own panties and now they were both completely naked, Steve messy with sugar and jelly and custard and glaze, his breath rasping audibly as he struggled to chew and swallow. Without warning, Romanov swung her leg across his lap, grabbed his hard cock, and sank down onto it. Steve shouted with pleasure, unchewed donut falling from his mouth. Romanov didn't move, only sat there. 

“Don't thrust,” she ordered. Steve whimpered, his eyes nearly crossing with how badly he needed to move inside her. She began to feed him the rest of the eleventh donut, moving agonizingly slowly as she did so, so Steve was moaning in pain and desire with every slide of her pussy. She lowered both hands down to his belly and gripped, her face beautiful with concentration as she used the strong muscles of her thighs and ass to bring herself up and down on his cock. “Feed, yourself,” she gasped, her head tilting back with pleasure as she began to move faster, and Steve didn't have to be told twice. He crammed the last donut into his mouth as fast as he could, chewing and swallowing and panting and moaning, and Romanov came with a cry of delight, her fingers digging painfully into his fat stomach as she writhed on top of him. 

“Come,” she urged him, as he swallowed the last bite, and Steve did, just as powerfully as he had the night before, letting out a string of desperate sounds that weren't quite words. His stomach was quivering by the time he slumped back against the pillows, completely wrung out, completely stuffed. The pain began to return to him, then; his tummy gurgling, the skin stretched so tight, an itch around his belly button, an ache as his gut bloated impossibly further outward. 

Instead of a washcloth, Romanov used her mouth to clean him. She ran her warm tongue through the golden hair of his throbbing belly, sucking up the jelly and custard, lathing away the granules of sugar, nibbling on the fat below his navel. “Getting so plump,” she murmured, sucking up a mouthful of flesh by his hip. “Like a berry.”

Steve couldn't respond; could only sit back, wheezing for breath, stuffed and unspeakably satisfied.

:::

“So, before we go back to work tomorrow, we should talk about this,” Natasha said, and waved a hand, as if to indicate what 'this' meant: Steve, stretched out fully-clothed on the couch with his head on Natasha's naked thigh, his lips still slick from eating her out, his belly distended and throbbing from eating everything else. Most recently, three double cheeseburgers and an order of chili cheese fries. An empty pizza box sat on the coffee table, along with two empty gallons of chocolate ice cream, a few crumpled sub wrappers, a stack of Chinese takeout containers, and a half-finished cheesecake. True to her word, Natasha – who'd ordered Steve to stop calling her Romanov now that they were fucking – had been vigilant about keeping Steve's stomach bloated to maximum capacity. For the past three days she'd been pinching his pudge every half hour, gauging how much room he had and proceeding to fill any spare space she claimed to find. She leaned over his head now, her bare breasts briefly smothering him pleasantly, and reached for the half-eaten cheesecake.

“Nat, no,” Steve said as she loaded up a huge forkful, but she ignored him. 

“C'mon,” she said, and filled his mouth with the thick, sweet cake. “That's a good boy. Another bite. Good. I'd like to keep sleeping with you, if you're into it.”

Steve was used to her rapid changes of subject by now, and he didn't blink, just swallowed his cheesecake. “Hurrp,” he said, raising his hand to cover a painful belch. “Ugh, ow. Um. Yeah. Yes. I – I want that, too.”

Natasha smiled and lowered another bite of cake to his lips. He sucked in a difficult breath before letting her prod it into his mouth. “You should know,” she said, “that I've never submitted to a man. And I won't submit to you, either. If we're doing this, I'm in control.”

At that, Steve was quiet, thinking. Natasha looked down into his face and stroked his hair with uncharacteristic affection. “I understand if that's a deal-breaker,” she said. “You've been so good for me so far, so obedient, and I admit I'm a little surprised. It doesn't seem your style.”

“It's not,” Steve admitted. “Usually I prefer to be dominant. But with you... I don't know. I trust you.”

Natasha pressed a soft kiss to his damp forehead. “And you enjoy the feeding aspect?” she said.

“Uh, I thought that was obvious,” Steve said, giving his tight, gurgling tummy a rueful pat, then blocking another forkful of cheesecake that was coming his way. “No, I can't eat any more in this position, Nat. I need to sit up.”

“Sit up, then,” she said, and watched, smirking and utterly unself-conscious in her nakedness as he struggled upright, one hand cradling his protesting belly. He was equal parts humiliated and turned-on by how difficult it was to heave himself into a sitting position, and by the time he was slumped back against the cushions, stomach churning, he was out of breath. 

“Big strong firefighter,” Natasha cooed, running her fingernails over the curve of his belly. “Does it hurt?”

“Yep,” Steve said, and sighed as she began to scratch his sides. “That feels good, though.”

She kept raking her fingernails over his stretched-skin, his t-shirt riding up over the swell of a hip, then reached one-handed to fork up some cheesecake. “You've got this,” she said, “Come on, big guy, get it down. That's right. Good, very good.” She was already resting the filled fork on his lower lip again, and as soon as he'd swallowed she filled his mouth. 

“Aaah,” Steve wheezed, breathing hard around the cake. “Gimme a – minute – catch my --”

Natasha was filling his mouth again, ruthlessly, piling cheesecake in on top of the cake he hadn't managed to swallow yet, but then she held off until he'd managed to force it down. The respite didn't last long, though – his mouth was soon filled with creamy cake again, and one of his hands crept to his packed belly, gripping it tightly in a vain effort to comfort it. 

“Steve,” Natasha said. “Did I tell you you could touch yourself?”

“No,” Steve managed, his hand falling. 

“You disobeyed me,” Natasha said quietly, and began cramming cheesecake into his mouth again, filling it so completely that he couldn't shut his lips, and the thick filling fell from his chin and onto his shirt. She didn't stop, though – she shoved his mouth full faster than he could swallow, until his whole face was a mess of white cake and he was light-headed from the pain in his stomach. His forehead was drenched in sweat, his hair standing up in spikes. 

“Stop,” he gasped, “stop, stop, stop.”

Natasha heard the desperation in his voice and dropped the fork, and Steve swallowed the cake still in his mouth, moaning and grunting from the effort of keeping it all down. 

“You need a safeword,” she said anxiously. “I don't want to hurt you.”

“Ugh,” Steve panted. “Fire.”

“Fire?” Nat said, mouth quirking. “A little predictable, Rogers.”

Steve was too full to smile back, but he noticed, in a haze of nausea and fullness, that there was only a bite or two left of the cake. Determined, he panted, “I can, I can finish. Let's – I can do it.”

“Steve, you don't have to,” Natasha said. “I don't – I don't want you unhappy. And I definitely don't want you to puke on my couch.”

“Not, gonna,” Steve said stubbornly. “Just – touch me, please. Please Natasha.”

“Okay,” she said, and pressed firmly on the globe of his pulsing stomach, began kneading it with one hand while she slowly fed him the last two bites of cheesecake. When he'd finished, she began kissing his face, his ears, his neck. “You're amazing,” she said, between kisses, “amazing. Look at you, look how round you're getting, how fat, my good boy, my greedy pig. Look at this stomach, look how full you are. God, this must hurt.” She pushed up his t-shirt to press kisses to the stretched and aching skin there, both her hands holding his belly like a beachball, and it did look like a ball, Steve thought dizzily, looked like he'd been inflated. “I can't believe how much you've eaten for me,” Natasha said, sucking kisses into his sensitive underbelly. “You're so swollen, I bet the whole crew will notice – I bet this belly barely goes down. You must've gained five pounds just since Sunday.” She rubbed a particularly itchy spot near his belly button and said, “You've got a little stretchmark here, look.”

Steve craned his head exhaustedly, and saw that she was right, and he had what was unmistakeably a small red threadlike scar zagging out near his navel. He was too full to care at the moment, and he dropped his head back down, letting Natasha continue her ministrations to his belly. He felt like a blood-filled tick, round and ready to pop, and he wondered if she was right, if this wasn't all just bloat, if he'd gained any weight in their three days together. 

I'll find out soon enough, he thought, and closed his eyes.

:::

“Hungry?” Barton said, eyeing him at work the next evening.

“Starved,” Steve said, ripping into his fourth chicken leg, and he was. He'd skipped breakfast that morning, still full from his last stuffing with Natasha, but it was dinnertime now and he felt ravenous. He'd even gone into the bathroom before the meal to look at his belly in the mirror; it felt so empty he was convinced it must have deflated by several inches, but to his consternation he saw that it was still noticeably rounder, filling out his tight t-shirt and even peeking out a little from the hem that had risen up without his noticing. No wonder his crew kept sneaking curious glances at him. He reached for the mashed potatoes and thwacked another huge helping onto his plate, but though he polished them off quickly, he didn't take more. He could have – he still had a little room – but this wasn't Natasha's living room, this was work, and people depended on him being able to move quickly, so he sat back in his chair and muffled a belch behind his hand. 

“Really packing it on there,” Seidman said, giving his belly a backhanded smack.

“Oof,” Steve said, turning red. He looked down to see the mound of his stomach pressed tight against his overtaxed t-shirt, and he scratched the itchy skin around his belly button, embarrassed. “Yeah, I've put on a few.”

“A few,” Seidman snorted good-naturedly. “Please. And it's all my doing, isn't it? My food's too fuckin' good to resist, ha!”

“You're definitely to blame for some of this,” Steve said, and pushed the heel of his hand into the side of his stomach. He was resolutely not looking at Natasha, who was watching with avid delight from across the table. “But I have to take most of the responsibility. Just don't know when to stop, I guess.”

“Gotta be thirty pounds,” Seidman said, squinting at him appraisingly. 

“Uh, try forty,” Steve admitted, and saw Natasha's eyes flare with interest at this data. “I was 190 when I got here, and last time I weighed myself I was sitting pretty at 228.”

Seidman let out a low whistle, and Steve reddened, ducked his head for another bite of chicken so he wouldn't have to meet Natasha's eyes. He could feel her staring at him, though, and his cock gave a proud stir of interest just from knowing she was looking. But then Seidman got up to wash his plate, and Natasha came over and sat casually next to Steve. 

“Forty pounds, huh?” she said, voice very low. “Bet you can gain another ten pounds before the calendar shoot.”

“Romanov, you're incorrigible,” he muttered.

“Oooh, big words from a big man,” she teased. “Why don't you let me take you out for dinner after our shift ends tomorrow? We need to start training if we're going to get you up to 240 by December 30th.”

Steve grinned despite himself. He could feel how his ass was starting to spread, his jeans tightening uncomfortably around his thighs, his belly rolling out in front of him, taking up more and more space. He scooted his chair until his stomach kissed the edge of the table, then scooted back a few inches, assessed the distance. Ten more pounds, he thought, and he might not be able to see his dick without dramatically craning his neck. The thought sent a strange excited thrill up his spine, and he gave Natasha a short nod – and then, because no one was looking, a small salute. 

:::

She took him out the next night, to an Italian restaurant. 

“Don't speak to our waitress,” she said, squeezing his thigh. “Understand?”

“Yes ma'am,” Steve said. They were sitting on the same side of the booth, tucked in a dim, candlelit corner, but still, it was a public place, and Steve was a trifle nervous about what was coming. He had been on the other side of this before, had teased his subs in public – one notable occasion involved a remote-control butt-plug and a very sassy young sailor – but he'd never been the one getting teased. To make matters worse, he was wearing a flannel button-up that had fit him very loosely oh, about forty pounds ago, but was now straining obviously against the new swell of his belly, and was even tight around his shoulders and neck. When he'd looked in the mirror, he'd seen a barely-noticeable spill of flesh around the collar, and had been forced to undo the top button. He tugged at it now, pulling it up a bit, trying to situate it better over his fuller figure. 

“Stop fidgeting,” Natasha said. 

The waitress appeared and Steve sat dumb and smiling while Natasha ordered them several appetizers – calamari, bruschetta, fried mozzarella – a plate of fettucine alfredo with steak, and an order of the baked ziti. “Extra cheese,” she said, handing back the menus. “Oh, and I'll have a glass of the house red. He'll have a frozen piña colada.”

Steve's smile slipped, but he maintained his silence until the waitress had sashayed away.

“It has the most calories,” Natasha said, before he could say anything. “You want to be good for me tonight, don't you? You'll drink what I tell you to drink.”

When the piña colada came, Steve sucked at it with a pink straw, trying not to glower. Actually, it tasted pretty good, though he usually preferred his booze to taste like booze, and not like a dessert. The waitress also brought a basket of three fresh rolls and butter, and Natasha split a roll, buttered it heavily, and handed it to him. 

“If you eat all these rolls and butter before our appetizers come, you'll get a beer, next,” she said, and Steve perked up, tearing into the roll with gusto. He was just swallowing the last bite of bread when the waitress returned with three heavy, steaming plates. 

“He'll have the peanut butter porter,” Natasha said, serving them both a piece of the crusty, tomato-laden bruschetta. 

“Gimmicky craft beer shit,” Steve grumbled. 

“What was that?” Natasha said sharply. “I was going to help you with the fried mozzarella, too, but you're on your own, now. Get to work. I need these plates cleaned before our entrees come.”

“You're not having any of this?” Steve said in disbelief, looking at the three appetizers. “Not even any calamari?”

“No,” Natasha said. “Not after that display.”

“Nat, I'll burst.”

“And it'll be your fault,” she said, picking up a piece of fried squid and tapping him on the lips. “Eat.”

Steve did eat. He ate everything, crunching and swallowing and washing it all down with rich dark porter. He made short work of the bruschetta, and polished off the calamari in several careless handfuls, but the fried mozzarella was too hot to eat quickly, and when he saw the waitress coming towards them with their entrees, he still had two pieces of fried cheese left. He looked at Nat desperately, but she gave him a cool, unforgiving look, and when the waitress had set down their pasta, she said, “My date will have another piña colada. Extra maraschino cherries, please.”

Steve had eaten the appetizers so quickly he hadn't had a chance to feel full, but after the first few (delicious) bites of fettucine, his stomach had begun to settle back into the now-familiar feeling of overloaded heaviness. He paused to arch his back and was about to tug at his waistband, but glanced instinctively towards Natasha. 

“If you're uncomfortable, tell me,” she said, smiling at his questioning glance. “I'll take care of you.”

He nodded and twirled another heap of rich pasta onto his fork. At his side, Natasha was taking delicate bites of her cheese-covered ziti. She loaded up a particularly large mouthful and turned to Steve, who blushed a bit to be doing this in public, but opened his mouth obligingly. The ziti, too, was excellent. “Mmm,” he said appreciatively, and forked a big piece of alfredo-covered steak. 

The waitress returned with Steve's piña colada, and, resigned, he pulled it towards himself and sucked down about a quarter of it in one go. God, what he wouldn't give for another beer. 

Natasha fed him another big bite of her pasta, and he ate the last two pieces of mozzarella, now cool, before returning to his own dish. He'd finished over half of it already, almost without noticing, but after he'd taken several more big bites and finished the majority of his hated piña colada, he put down his fork and took a few deep breaths. He was definitely full now. He could feel his stomach beginning to grumble in protest, as if to say, Stop, stop, you've made your point, and Natasha raised a mouthful of ziti towards him. He ate it off her fork, and her hand below the table squeezed his thigh. She fed him another big bite, then another, then he went back to his alfredo, beginning to breath a little heavily. He scooted closer to the table, put one elbow up, trying to get more comfortable, but he didn't ask Natasha for help, not yet. He twirled another huge mouthful of pasta and chewed it slowly, stalling for time. He swallowed, and Nat's fork was there, full of ziti, waiting. She fed him another few bites of her food, and gave his cock a small, encouraging squeeze as he huffed and loaded his own fork with the remains of his alfredo. He stuffed the huge bite of alfredo into his mouth and swallowed it triumphantly, dropping his fork with a clatter, but Nat only smiled and gestured to her own plate. There was still more than half left. 

“Oh, god,” Steve said weakly, draping a hand across his bloated tummy. His flannel was strained so tight that big slices of his white undershirt were showing through the gaps in his buttons. He let out a hard sigh. The waitress was approaching, and he tried to sit up a little straighter, tried in vain to suck in his gut a little, but he was too full, and gave up. 

“I'll have another glass of wine, and he'll have whatever IPA's on tap,” Natasha said, and Steve shot her a profoundly grateful smile. More booze would help numb his aching stomach. “And we're still working on this ziti, but we'd love to see the dessert menu.”

“I'm uncomfortable,” Steve told Natasha, when the waitress had vanished. 

“Do you need to unbutton your pants?” Natasha said kindly. 

“Yes,” Steve said, humiliated, turned-on. Her small, deft hands reached under the table and fumbled for his button, and Steve sighed with relief as it popped open. “And my shirt,” Steve said, “Could you...?”

She reached over and tugged it up a little, bunching it under his pecs to give his belly a little more room. Steve knew how ridiculous he must look, but the lust in Natasha's eyes made it worthwhile. She gave his stomach a few hard pats, the way he liked to be touched, and then put an arm around his shoulders and leaned against him, letting him feel the soft push of her breasts on his bicep. “You're doing so well,” she said, her voice husky and full of promise, and she fed him a bite of ziti with her free hand. 

The waitress came back just then to deliver the drinks and dessert menu, but Natasha barely looked at her, too busy easing another big bite of pasta into Steve's tired mouth, and the waitress scurried away, pink-faced. 

“Drink some beer,” Natasha said, and Steve did, took a few breathless, noisy gulps, then opened his mouth wide for more pasta. It was almost gone now. “Just a few more bites,” Nat said soothingly, nudging his mouth with the fork. He knew her patterns by now, and knew what was coming, so he was prepared when she began filling his mouth without letting him swallow, packing his mouth full of the noodles until her plate was cleaned but Steve had sauce all over his chin. He closed his eyes, working through the obscene mouthful while Natasha nibbled deliciously on his ear, and when he'd finally swallowed she gave him a few long moments to catch his breath, stomach heaving, breath coming in ragged bursts. 

“Keep drinking,” Nat said, and pressed his beer into his hand. “Gotta fill you up.”

Steve felt pretty damn filled-up already, but he chugged at his beer, tried to set it down but Natasha stopped him with two fingers on the bottom of the glass, tilting it towards his mouth, forcing him to chug it until it was done. 

“Aaah,” Steve gasped, slamming the glass down, slumped over the round packed throb of pain that was his belly. “Fuck. Ugh, christ. Nat, do something.” 

“Excuse me,” she said. “Was that an order?”

“No, no,” he amended. “I meant – please. Please, Nat, I'm... I'm really fucking uncomfortable. Please, please could you... anything, anything would help.”

“Poor baby,” she relented, and slid a palm under his tummy, supporting its weight for a moment. It shocked Steve, how good it felt to have his forty extra pounds held up by someone else, and he concentrated on trying to catch his breath. “Getting heavy,” Natasha said, pushing up on his belly. “Only going to get heavier. You were doing fine on your own, but now that you've got me, well...” She sucked a mouthful of the soft skin at his jawline and he closed his eyes in pleasure. “You like being big, don't you? Like getting round and pudgy.” She pinched at the swell of fat below his belly button and said, “Still got some room in here, big man. I'll give you a few minutes, but then it's back to work. How do you feel?”

“Really full,” Steve mumbled, eyes still closed. “Really, really full.”

“You look full,” Nat said, and her hand trailed downward until it was cupping his hard cock. It was all he could do not to buck up into her hand. “You're sweating, big guy. Is eating hard work?”

Steve grunted an assent.

“Want me to undo some of these shirt buttons?” She said, pulling the remaining inches of tucked-in shirt out of his jeans. “I think flannel's too strong to pop them.”

“Yeah, please,” he breathed, and she undid a few of the lower buttons, enough so his underbelly pudged out, though above the belly button was still uncomfortably restricted. Still, it felt better than nothing. 

“Our waitress is coming,” Nat said, and Steve managed to open his eyes and lean forward in time that she (probably) didn't see the buttons that had been unfastened since she'd last visited. He hunched over the table, and realized he could feel the bottom of his belly press against his thighs when he leaned forward like this. 

“Dessert?” the waitress squeaked, and Steve remembered too late that he probably still had spaghetti sauce all around his mouth. He swiped heavily at it with a napkin.

“We'll have the chocolate lava cake, and two scoops of vanilla ice cream,” Natasha said. “Wait – make that three. Whipped cream, too. And I'll have a cappuccino. Thanks.”

Steve leaned back again, grunting in an effort to get a deep breath. Instead, he let out a long, wet belch.

“Rude piggy,” Natasha said, smiling. “God, your cheeks are pink. Is that embarrassment, or fullness?”

“Both,” Steve said. He rocked from side to side, trying to rustle up another burp, and a moment later his body obliged beautifully. “Urrrp,” he rumbled. “Aah. Scuse me.”

“What's it feel like?” Natasha said curiously. “To be out of shape?”

Steve bristled. “I'm not --”

“No, no, you're still strong,” Natasha agreed hurriedly. “I know. But I mean... what's it feel like to just... let go? To go from abs to a gut?”

“Feels... weird,” Steve admitted. “I forget I've gotten chunky, most of the time. But fuck, none of my damn clothes fit. Everything's too small. Hard to get comfortable sometimes, too, because I'm not used to... to being heavy, here.” He patted his tummy.

“But you like it,” Natasha said, not quite a question.

“I do,” Steve said slowly. “I like eating. I like doing whatever the hell I want, waking up when I want, eating what I want. I like being full, even when it hurts. And I like being bigger. I like taking up more space, getting comfortable.”

Natasha nodded, her fingers drumming on the crest of his belly. “Good,” she said. “Dessert's here.”

“Oh, jesus,” Steve said, and the waitress gave a nervous titter as she set down the huge, oozing slice of chocolate cake and the big bowl of vanilla ice cream quivering with whipped cream.

“I'm going to drink my cappuccino,” Natasha said. “And you'll have eaten that by the time I'm done. Let me know if you need something.”

Steve puffed out a breath, and scooted closer to the table, let his belly press up against the edge. He propped both elbows up and took his first gigantic bite, and even though he was terribly full he could still appreciate a delicious cake when he tasted one, and this was delicious. “Unnh,” he grunted, spooning up some ice cream. The cold of it felt good going down into his overheated belly, and he managed to trick himself by shoveling down nearly half the bowl before his body figured out what was going on and began to protest. He went back to the cake, shoved his mouth full of the gooey chocolate and managed to swallow despite the way his tummy was pressing at the still done-up buttons of his flannel as if for dear life. He could practically feel his skin stretching to accommodate the excess food, and he leaned further over the table, curling around the hard ball of his stomach, a little astonished at how hugely he'd rounded out just since starting dinner. 

“How you doing over there?” Nat said, sipping her cappuccino.

“Bout to tap out,” Steve wheezed. “Oh god, I'm full. Fuck. Ugh, jesus.”

“You're so close,” Nat said. “Do you need me to take over?”

He looked down at the remains of the cake and ice cream, swallowed hard, and nodded resolutely. He leaned back and closed his eyes, and Natasha settled in by his side, began to feed him steadily. It was easier with his eyes closed, he found; he could just gulp at whatever came his way without having to confront it, and again it hit him how vulnerable he was to this woman. The thought made his cock jump, even as he had a sudden, contradictory urge to grab her and pin her down, hear her beg. That, however, was impossible, not only because she'd been adamant about her role, but because he could barely move, he felt so queasy and stuffed and fat. Just when it became truly intolerable, Natasha said, voice full of praise, “You're done.”

He couldn't speak just yet. He sat there with his eyes closed and his stomach bloated out hugely into his lap, listening as Natasha asked for the check, paid the bill, and began to rub his painfully swollen gut, pressing firmly into the sides, knuckling around the belly button where it felt tightest. Finally, after what felt like hours, he opened his eyes.

Natasha smiled at him. “Ready to go back to my place and get the blow job of your life?” she said. 

“Yes,” Steve said fervently, and, panting for breath, he heaved himself up, belly first, and let Natasha lead him slowly to the car. 

:::

By the time the calendar shoot rolled around two weeks later, Steve was – to Natasha's utter delight – up another nine pounds, and he really felt it. He felt heavy and round and he couldn't keep his hands off his belly, couldn't stop marveling at how much of it there suddenly was. Part of it had to be bloat, he thought, because he'd never been so full so consistently in his whole life. When he wasn't working, he was with Natasha, alternating between bouts of sex and bouts of feeding, and he was so used to being absolutely stuffed that he'd started getting hungry if he spent even one hour without something in his mouth. He'd gotten another few spidery stretch marks around his navel, too, and a thick one on his hip. 

“I bet if I eased up, I'd drop five pounds in a day,” Steve said. It was the night before the shoot, and he was propped up in Natasha's bed, eating a pint of ice cream. He was wearing a t-shirt and boxers, neither of which fit him whatsoever, but Natasha wouldn't let him buy new clothes yet, so his t-shirt was rucked up around his belly button and his boxers were pulled under the swell of his gut and cutting into the thick meat of his flanks and thighs. His lower belly had begun to rest gently in his lap, warm on the tops of his legs. 

“Oh, you think so?” Natasha said, curled up at his side, lazily scratching the dome of his belly. 

He stretched out his legs, noticing the way his thighs had begun to soften and spread, and arched his back so his stomach rolled into Nat's touch. “Probably,” he said, after he'd swallowed a bite of ice cream. 

“Is that what you want?”

“I don't know,” Steve said. He nudged the pint of ice cream into the side of his belly and jostled it a little. “I'm getting pretty chunky.”

“That's true,” Natasha said. Steve sucked on another bite of ice cream. He could feel the roll of fat that had developed on his back, could see how his pecs had grown pudgy and soft. That morning while shaving he'd realized he was navigating the razor around unfamiliar territory, the soft beginnings of a chin that doubled when he moved his head down. His face looked softer, too, his cheeks doughier, which didn't thrill him. He was toying with the idea of growing a beard. He ate some more ice cream and sighed.

“Can't believe I'm gonna let someone take pictures of me half-naked,” he said. 

“People all over the city are going to be getting themselves off to that picture,” Natasha said. “Mark my words.”

He scraped the bottom of the cardboard ice cream container and then put it to the side, stretched his arms over his head and felt his stomach groan and rumble, too full to appreciate being shifted. Natasha leaned over to the nightstand and held up a store-bought red velvet cake in a large white box.

“Ready?”

Steve nodded, settling back into the pillows even more. He took the box and held it to his chest, letting it rest on the new shelf of his belly. If he kept going like this, he thought, he'd be able to balance it there with no hands some day. He dug in with his ice cream spoon, got himself a frosting-laden bite and hummed a little as he swallowed it down. Natasha crawled around to settle herself between his legs, mouthed at his dick still encased in the fabric of his boxers. Steve didn't move, well-trained by now, though he moaned a little.

“Don't stop eating,” Nat said, gazing at him sternly over the bulge of his belly.

“Yes ma'am,” Steve said thickly, mouth stuffed with cake. He could feel her hair tickling his chubby stomach where it spilled out from his t-shirt, and as she peeled off his too-tight boxers he shoved another bite into his mouth, then another as she wrapped her lips around the head of his cock. He groaned, eyes fluttering closed, then dropped the spoon and went at the cake with his fingers, too turned-on to be bothered to aim the utensil. He stuffed his mouth with sticky fingers as Natasha bobbed up and down, until he was groaning and panting as much from fullness as from pleasure, the two so intertwined he barely knew the difference, anymore. He sucked frosting from his palm, went blindly back into the box, bit madly at his own cake-filled fingers as she flicked her tongue over his slit. He smashed a handful of cake into his mouth, his stomach throbbing, cock throbbing, everything a haze of pain and pleasure, and he was close, so close, too close – 

“Please,” he begged, garbled through the cake in his mouth, “Please, please --”

“Come,” Nat said, and he did, one hand fisting in her thick red hair, the other still deep in the cake, his whole body arching and shaking with ecstasy. 

Later, after Nat had cleaned the frosting from his face and hands and had gently toweled off his tender belly, she kissed him full on the mouth.

“You're sweet,” she said. 

“And salty,” he said. 

She laughed, and kissed him again.

:::

The next morning she made him an enormous breakfast, ignoring his pleas that he was still too full and bloated from the night before. He was in his tight jeans and a sweater that stretched across the swell of his middle and highlighted his bellybutton but still fit pretty well around the chest and shoulders, and his tummy was swollen out round and gurgling, tender to the touch. Nevertheless, Natasha ordered him to eat a five-egg cheese omelette, four pieces of toast, half a package of bacon, a donut, and two full glasses of chocolate milk with whipped cream before she declared herself satisfied. 

“Phew,” Steve said, when he'd finished, though the crazy thing was, he wasn't nearly as full as he could have been. His capacity had increased tremendously under Natasha's strict care, and he felt pleasantly stuffed but not incapacitated. His belly had that strained feeling he'd come to love, like it was pushing out away from him, like no matter what he did he wouldn't be able to suck it in at all, and his sides pulled and itched. He sighed and carefully pet the crest of his stomach, where he was roundest and tightest. He hiccuped softly, and Natasha stroked her finger across the little stripe of bare skin that poked over his waistband. Steve's eyes began to drift closed.

“No sleeping,” Natasha said. “Or did you forget you have a date with a photographer?”

“Right,” Steve said, resigned. “Let's get this show on the road.”

:::

Everyone in the calendar got to attend the photo shoots of the other 'models,' which mean that Steve spent a very pleasant half hour watching Natasha writhe around on a white fur rug, and a very hilarious half hour watching Barton stand naked with an umbrella in front of his dick. 

That also meant, however, that Barton, Natasha, and everybody else all got to watch Steve's shoot. 

When he took off his shirt, a few wolf whistles broke out, and someone shouted, “What's for dinner?” then answered their own question: “Beef!” Steve palmed his bloated belly and tried a grin. The photographer, a little bespectacled guy in a tight pink t-shirt, was all business, and before he knew it, Steve found himself buck-ass naked and holding a small American flag over his privates. He was still too full to suck in his gut, but he flexed his chest and arms and another round of whistles erupted. He felt absolutely ridiculous, but the photographer cried, with unfeigned admiration, “Work it, daddy! Yes, yes, amazing!”

Later, they crowded around the computer to look at the digital images, and Steve was astonished by how big he looked. He hadn't realized his belly was getting wide as well as round, but it was, curving out at the sides to join his chunky love handles, and his shoulders looked like a brick wall. His chest looked thick and strong, though his pecs were noticeably pudgier, peakier, and his arms were huge, padded not only with muscle now but fat. Actually, he looked pretty damn good, he thought.

The only thing he wasn't crazy about was how the weight was showing up on his face, in his cheeks and in the suggestion of a double chin. His jawline was blurring into his neck. 

“Think I'm gonna grow a beard,” he told Nat later that night, as they celebrated with – what else? – an epic sex-and-stuffing session. They were post-coital on her living room floor in a mess of cushions, Steve half-reclined against her chest as she poked the last of the General Tao's chicken between his lips. He was kneading his full belly, burping lightly between bites. 

“Gonna go full lumberjack, huh?” she said.

“Why not?” he said. He let out a particularly long belch, and thumped his belly afterwards, wincing. Nat held the last eggroll to his lips, and he let her shove in the entire thing. She loved watching him struggle with an impossibly full mouth, showering bits of eggroll down onto his stuffed gut and straining for breath. She was a sick gal, his Natasha, Steve thought fondly, swallowing. 

“I like your pudgy face,” she said finally, stroking a finger down one cheek. “But I think you'd look great with a beard, too. Not to mention another forty pounds.”

Steve snorted. “Forty-eight, actually,” he said, pressing the heel of his hand into the sore skin above his belly button. Probably working on another stretchmark. 

“Another forty-eight pounds, then,” Natasha said.

“You gonna stick around that long?” he said lightly, and she leaned over to press a kiss against his shoulder. 

“Depends,” she said. “You really gonna gain another forty-eight pounds for me?”

“Jesus, Nat...”

“Kidding,” she said. She reached forward to tweak one of his nipples. “You ready for dessert?”

He patted his stomach. “Born ready.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter. Thank you for reading!

Whether or not Nat had really been kidding, Steve could feel himself to continue to put on weight, and a lot of it was directly Natasha's doing.

“Let's get brunch,” she suggested, one rainy day in early February, about a month after the calendar shoot. Steve looked at her in disbelief from his supine position on the bed. He was still chewing the last of the six donuts she'd woken him up with.

“Wasn't that brunch?” he said, brushing donut out of his thick new beard. 

“That was a light breakfast,” she corrected him. “C'mon, get up. We're gonna brunch in style.”

Obediently, he pushed himself up with a groan and sat for a moment on the edge of the bed, one hand on his belly, which rested fully on his lap when he sat, now, and was feeling heavier by the day. He, Steve, was feeling heavier by the day. Pushing himself up and bending over his bloated belly to put on his jeans was a chore, and zipping them up and buttoning them was even worse. These were new jeans, relatively, bought right after the photo shoot, but he had to lean back to get the button done up, and his belt buckle chafed the sensitive skin of his lower belly unless he tucked in his shirt – and most of his shirts were a bit too small to stay tucked in, at the moment. He shrugged into a newish flannel, and Natasha came around the bed towards him as he tugged the flaps of his shirt towards one another, trying to button them.

“Let me,” she said, putting her hands on either side of his belly and leaning up to kiss him. He melted into her touch, and she began doing up his buttons with brisk, efficient movements, slapping his stomach once and saying, “Suck in a bit – you're getting too fat for this shirt already.”

“I know,” Steve said, putting a palm on the side of his gut, which was straining the buttons. He took a deep breath, let it out, felt the way the shirt grew even tighter as he inhaled.

“Getting a fat ass, too,” Natasha said, pinching it affectionately. 

Steve didn't need to be told. He could feel it, could feel his round butt cheeks crammed uncomfortably into his too-tight boxers. He could feel the fat of his lower back sitting in a thick roll atop his waistband, and he put a hand to his waist, feeling the crease that had formed there. He thought he might be bigger than he'd been even last week. 

At brunch, he dutifully ate what she ordered him: five pancakes, a ham-and-cheese breakfast sandwich with hashbrowns, a side of sausage patties, and a coffee milkshake. It took him nearly an hour, and he and Nat split the paper while he ate, sitting side-by-side as they always did, Nat occasionally reaching out to feed him a piece of sausage or a bite of pancakes when he showed signs of getting tired. His tummy sat comfortably on his thighs, and brushed the edge of the table as he ate – he had to lean forward over it, just a little, but it was new enough that he kept dropping things on himself, not used to the extra few inches of distance. 

“All right, there?” Natasha said as he sucked up the last of his milkshake and set down the glass with a hard sigh.

“Mmm,” Steve said, draping a hand over his middle and leaning back in the booth, trying to breathe deeply despite the tightness of his flannel. “Could use a few new shirts.”

“Nope,” Natasha said, turning the page of her newspaper. “Not yet.”

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, rocking forward a little to let his heavy belly rest more fully on his thighs, take some weight off his back. He wanted to put his arms on the table and sleep like a tired kid, but he contented himself with propping his elbows up and resting his head in his hands. Outside, the day was dark, and the rain was droning steadily against the windows. He yawned hugely, then let out a few small, unsatisfying burps. 

Nat reached out and smoothed her thumb over the pudge that had formed on the back of his neck, lapping his collar ever-so-slightly. “Need a nap, baby?”

He looked at her, a little surprised by the endearment. “Yeah,” he said. “Someone woke me up at the crack of dawn to feed me donuts.”

“What evil monster would do such a thing?” she said. “C'mon, let's get you home and back in bed.”

He hit the couch, instead, sat dozing against the cushions while Natasha curled up beside with her laptop and paid some bills. He felt very warm and very round, his belly weighing him down into the sofa, his thick sides rolling over his pants, and he was glad he'd grown the beard, because he could feel his chin resting in a little pocket of flab. He folded his arms over his belly and dozed off to the sound of Natasha typing and the rain falling. 

He awoke a while later, disoriented, to a delicious, cinnamony smell. Natasha was in the same place next to him, laptop still out. “What's that?” he said muzzily. 

“Just heating up some frozen cinnamon rolls,” she said. “Thought you might be hungry when you woke up.”

Steve stretched luxuriously and raked his fingernails up and down the sides of his round tummy, considering. “Yeah, I could eat,” he said. “How long was I out?”

“Bout an hour.”

Only an hour? Steve frowned. So the enormous brunch had been less than two hours ago, but his mouth was already watering at the thought of those rolls. 

The timer went off with a ding, and Natasha unfolded herself from the couch and went into the kitchen. Steve watched her go appreciatively, still scratching his belly. When she returned with a huge plate of cinnamon rolls and a tub of frosting, Steve pushed himself into more of a sitting position, grunting a little as he bent over his gut to take one from the coffee table. 

“Wait, they're hot,” Natasha said, too late, and Steve sucked mulishly on his burned fingers. “Greedy,” she said, smiling. “Can't even wait for them to cool. Here, have some frosting.”

She opened the fresh tub and loaded up one of her lovely fingers, and Steve caught her hand, raised it to his mouth and put her frosting-full finger between his lips, sucking very slowly. When it was clean, she offered him some more, and he sucked that off slower still. He could tell this was getting to her: she had a flush starting on the pale skin of her chest, and he grinned slowly. An idea was forming in his mind. An experiment. He gestured for more frosting and she hastened to scoop up another finger's worth – not noticing that she'd obeyed his subtle instructions, rather than the other way around. 

“Think those are ready?” he asked, nodding at the rolls, and she tested one with cautious fingers.

“Cool enough,” she said, and began slathering it in frosting. She started to hand it to him but he didn't move, didn't raise a finger, didn't lean forward, so after a moment she moved closer to him on the couch, tucked up against one broad shoulder, and held it to his mouth. He took a slow bite, chewed, swallowed. She pressed it to his lips again, and he took another big bite, then bent his head before she could raise the pastry again, and snapped off a bite without being fed, lips brushing her fingertips. 

“Sorry,” he said, with a guileless smile. “Just really hungry.”

“Oh, are you?” Natasha said, and true to form, she began to stuff the entire rest of the cinnamon roll into his mouth, faster than he could swallow. He chewed rapidly, though, putting more work into it than usual, and finished it off in record time. 

“Another,” he said, before she could move to grab one, and she shot him a sharp look but was already piling frosting onto a second fist-sized roll. When she came at him he was ready: instead of taking a small bite, as she clearly meant him to, he unhinged his jaw and ate nearly the entire thing in one massive chomp, lips closing over her thumb for a moment, crumbs falling onto his chest and bouncing off the curve of his pecs before landing on the swell of his stomach. He choked it down, and again spoke before she could move. “Another one.”

He could see her warring with herself: she didn't like that he was bossing her around, but she didn't want to stop feeding him, either. He could see that she was as turned-on as he was, her pupils blown, full lips parted, and after a moment she took a third roll and frosted it in huge white globs. She wasn't delicate or gentle this time – she smashed the roll into his mouth, but he took even better than he got: he caught her wrist and held her hand there while he chewed, swallowing thick pieces of dough and then licking her palm clean, tongue flicking between her fingers, sucking on the tip of her pinky.

She was breathing heavily now, squirming in her seat a little, and Steve said, “Why don't you sit on my lap, honey?”

“You won't have a lap for much longer, keep eating his way,” she said, but she was already folding herself into him, a testament to her arousal that she did so without questioning. She sat cradled against his shoulder, his belly pressing into the side of her slender thigh and molding to her hip, and she stretched out an arm to grab the plate of rolls and frosting and bring it up to place on her own lap. She smeared another roll with frosting, and this time, as she pressed it between Steve's lips, he raised his hand and slid it up her shirt, got himself a nice handful of her breast, passed his thumb roughly across her nipple. She sucked in a breath, and Steve finished the last of the roll from her hand, biting down gently on the tip of her fingers. 

“Look what you've done,” he said to her, caressing her breast. “I think I've put on another ten pounds just in this past month. You gonna feed me another one of those, or what?”

“Watch your mouth,” she gasped, as he rolled her hard nipple between his thumb and forefinger. 

“Maybe you should shut me up,” he said, and she did, shoved his mouth full of roll without even frosting it, and he chewed and swallowed and let out a pained breath. The five rolls had reminded his belly that it had been pretty full to begin with, and he could feel the ache of fullness again, the stretch of his skin over the bloat of his fat. Natasha saw him struggling and dipped three fingers into the frosting, came up with a frankly enormous gob of it and painted it into his mouth. It was so sweet it hurt his teeth, but at least he didn't need to chew it, and he gulped it down only to contend with another sticky roll fast on its heels, shoved against his lips even as he gasped for breath. 

The tables were turning again, and Natasha knew it. Steve was getting seriously full, and Natasha stoppered his mouth with another huge serving of frosting, which was almost more difficult than the rolls to choke down: it was all sugar and fat and no resistance, and he could feel it filling him up. When he opened his mouth to pant for air, Natasha was there with more frosting, and it was all he could do to keep swallowing. 

She dipped her fingers back for more, and he realized with horror that she was planning to feed him the entire tub. “Oh, christ,” he groaned, tilting his head back, but she wound sticky fingers through his beard and yanked his face up to hers. A wicked smile, and she filled his mouth once more. 

“Glad you grew this beard,” she said conversationally. “Such a good handle.” He was breathing raggedly, wincing on every inhale. “Oh, are you full?” she said. “Is this poor tummy sore? You're getting so fat, Steve, look at you, look at this gut. This is the last of the frosting, now, come on, you've got it. Good, good boy, that's right. Now open up again – you know you want it.”

Steve chewed the roll she pressed between his lips, the dough so thick and warm and filling, and he nearly gagged as he swallowed, he was so full. It was the frosting, making him queasy and light-headed from so much pure sugar and oil straight to the system, and his stomach felt like it was stretched so tight it might split. He groaned, arching his back, feeling his tight belly push against Natasha's leg, and when she came at him with another roll he said, wheezing horribly, “Fire! Fire!”

Natasha immediately leaned to put the plate of rolls – only a few left – on the coffee table, then shifted position so she was straddling Steve's legs, her own legs spread wide to accommodate his girth. “Okay,” she said, as he panted and moaned, “okay, you're all right. God, look at you, look how fucking round you are – really stuffed, aren't you? Poor baby. Gonna get this shirt unbuttoned, okay?” Her fingers were working to undo his flannel, and he groaned in relief as the shirt fell away and his aching gut ballooned out to fill the space, his belt buckle cold on the swell of his underbelly. His t-shirt had inched up to just below his navel, and Natasha rubbed the bloated skin there for a moment, then gently eased the hem up farther so it was nestled below his chubby pecs, his hugely swollen tummy exposed to the air. 

“Ugh, god,” he groaned, gripping her thighs on either side of him. He arched his back in pain and arousal, trying impossibly to create more room in his packed gut, and Natasha began rubbing circles on his swollen sides, scratching here and there with her nails. “Fuck,” he said, “jesus, how'd I --” he paused, gulped air, “How'd I get so full? Christ, feel like I'm gonna pop.”

“Let's see,” Natasha said, pretending to think, and she scootched forward so she was pressed right into his belly, and she began to grind slowly up and down on his hard cock while she spoke. “It's only noon,” she said, grinding, rubbing his belly, “but by my count you've already had six donuts, five pancakes with maple syrup and butter, a breakfast sandwich, hashbrowns – oh, make that seven donuts – a milkshake, seven cinnamon rolls, and an entire tub of cream cheese frosting. How DID you get so full? It's a mystery.”

“Fuck,” puffed Steve. “Fuck, that's a, lot.”

“Now you notice,” Nat said. “No wonder you can barely move. No wonder you're so swollen and round.” She was grinding faster now, and Steve groaned as she jostled his full belly, but it felt amazing, too, and he let out an involuntary whimper as she hit just the right angle, just the right rhythm, her hands still holding either side of his gut, and he felt so enormously fat, so bloated, so completely out-of-control and out-of-shape and swollen and stretched and in pain –

he almost yelled as he came, it was so intense, and so unexpected. His legs straightened, his toes curled, his head fell back and his eyes slammed shut. Vaguely he registered the fact that Natasha had stopped moving, was running her hands through the blond hair below his belly button, and when the sparks faded from his vision and he'd opened his eyes, he saw that she was grinning.

“I didn't mean to,” he paused, sipped air, still in a considerable amount of discomfort. “I didn't mean to, come so, fast. Huurrrp. Ow, ugh. Fuck.”

“That's okay,” she said, still stroking his stomach. “You can make it up to me later. After dinner.”

“Aagh,” Steve said, and dropped his head back down on the cushions.

:::

So his first attempt had failed. But that was okay. He knew that Operation: Dom Nat was going to be a slow and steady process, not won in a single battle. 

Because the thing was, he was bigger than he'd ever been, and stronger, too, with more weight to throw around, although he wouldn't be running any marathons any time soon. He wanted to see what it was like to be in control, in this new body of his – he wanted to wipe the smirk off Natasha's pretty face, wanted to hear her say “Yes sir” and “No sir” and “May I?” 

“Dammit,” he muttered, letting his hands fall to his sides. His flannel – the same one he'd worn less than two weeks ago, the same one he'd finally gotten the frosting stains off of – didn't even come close to buttoning around his belly. Normally that wouldn't be a problem, he'd just wear it open over a t-shirt or a henley, but all his t-shirts were too small, too. His jeans weren't particularly comfortable, either, especially not in the ass and around the thighs, where they pulled and constricted, but at least that wasn't too noticeable. He tugged his t-shirt down as far as it could go and looked in the mirror hopefully, but there was still an obvious swell of bare fat bulging out beneath the hem and over his waistband, and his flannel did nothing to conceal it. Rather, it fell around the dome of his gut and emphasized how his belly was getting wider by the day, his belly button a clear, deep dimple beneath the tight fabric, his pecs beginning to fatten into peaks, plump and and sensitive. 

“Natasha,” he said, as she came into the room and bit her lip at the sight of him – in lust or hilarity, he honestly didn't know. “Look at me. Please. I need some new shirts.”

“No,” she said, and came forward to give his belly a hard pat. It jiggled beneath her hand, especially the pudge of his underbelly, which was so round it had pushed his waistband into a deep curve and forced it to fold over – not a bad thing, since it concealed the safety pin Steve was using to keep his pants closed. “Ooh, you're soft. Must be hungry.”

“No, it jiggles even when I'm full, now,” Steve said. “Know why? Cause I've put on a shit ton of weight.”

“How do you know?” Natasha said avidly. “Have you weighed yourself?”

“How do I know?” Steve said, and spread his arms. “Look at me! None of my clothes fit, my underwear's too tight, I've got three new stretchmarks this week, I can barely sit up in the mornings, my back hurts, I'm getting out of breath just standing here --” He stopped. Natasha was staring at him, flushed, the tip of her pink tongue resting on her plump lower lip. “I'm getting a new roll of fat,” Steve continued, watching her. “Right here, on my back, under my armpits, see? Even my armpits are getting fat. And my jeans are all wearing out at the thighs.” He took a step towards her. Her mouth was slightly open now, her eyes glazed. “See? They rub together when I walk.” He took another step, then another, until he was in arm's length of her. “My chest is getting fat,” he said, and cupped his pecs carefully, squeezed. “Look at this, they're like tits. And my ass can barely fit in these jeans – I can't even get my hand in the back pocket. And look at this fucking belly.” He took a step closer so his gut nudged her flat stomach. “It's so fuckin' heavy,” he said, palming it with both hands, then hefting it up. He could feel his t-shirt slide up further, letting his belly button peek out. He stepped again, crowding Natasha's space so she was forced to take a step back, towards the bed. “Gotta be another ten pounds, at least,” he said. “Another ten pounds just since January. Fuck, I need to slow down. Feel so fucking fat all of a sudden.” Nat had hit the bed, now, and she sat down. Steve kept moving forward, straddled her legs so she was forced to lean back on her hands to accommodate his gut. “I've been seriously packing it on, Nat. Don't you think I should slow down? Stop being such a fucking glutton?”

“No,” Nat whispered.

“What?” Steve said, holding a hand to his ear. “What? You don't think I should stop eating like a pig every day? You don't think I should stop eating until my belly feels like it's going to burst, until I can't even breathe?”

“No,” Nat said, louder. 

“You want me to keep going?” Steve said. “Keep piling on this weight?”

“Yes,” said Nat. 

“What are you gonna do about it?” Steve said, but that was going too far. All of a sudden, Nat had a firm grip on his balls, even through the too-tight material of his jeans, and he jolted in surprise, nearly smacked her in the face with his belly. 

“What am I going to do about it?” Nat said, squeezing so hard Steve gasped. “I'm going to feed you, of course. Feed you until you can't move, until you're begging for mercy.”

Steve's knees were buckling. 

“Do you want me to let go?” Natasha said, her grip viselike.

“Yes,” Steve gasped.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, ma'am!” he said. “Please, just – Nat, please --”

“Are you going to be good for me?” she said. 

“Yes!” he said. 

“Are you going to lie down on the bed without moving while I go order lunch?”

“Yes!”

“Good,” she said, and let go of his balls. “Get on the bed, Steve.”

Weakly, he did as he was told, propped himself up on the headboard with his big stomach mounded out in front of him, on full display in his too-small clothes. Natasha delivered a hard smack to it, watched it jiggle for a moment, then cupped one of his plump pecs and squeezed none-too-gently.

“No new clothes,” she said. “Not after that little display. Not until you hit 260.”

Steve did some rapid calculations in his head. He'd been 239 last time he'd weighed himself before the photo shoot, and he was pretty sure he'd already gained quite a bit of weight since then. He ran a considering hand up the slope of his belly, gripped a handful of fat hip. Felt like even more than ten pounds, maybe. Which meant he might have passed 250 without even noticing, a number so large it kinda rattled his brain. But that also meant he was probably pretty damn close to 260 already. 

“Yes ma'am,” he said resignedly.

“You'll weigh yourself next time you work,” she instructed. “And I'll be there to watch.”

“Yes ma'am,” he said again.

:::

His crew hadn't missed his gain either, of course, and when he stepped over to the scale after lifting with Seidman, both Seidman and Barton scurried after him. Natasha, on the other side of the room with the kettlebells, set them down and sauntered over as if she didn't really care either way. Oh, how Steve knew better. 

“Figured I'd check in,” he said loudly to his little audience, though it was all for Natasha's benefit. “Think I mighta put on a few pounds again. Clothes been kinda tight.”

“Kinda,” echoed Barton, eyeing him. 

He was wearing a pair of sweatpants, their waist pulled out as far as it could go, the little useless ends of the drawstring poking out comically and the cotton seat stretched so tight over the globes of his ass that he'd been picking wedgies all day. The fabric bunched around his crotch and strained across his thighs, but still, they were more comfortable than his jeans, which he couldn't get buttoned even if he lay on the bed and strained. He was in the biggest henley he owned, which wasn't saying much, but at least it covered most of his belly – though it was so tight it showcased the roll of fat at his waist, and how soft his chest had gotten, how his nipples were always half-hard and sensitive. 

“Been eating a lot lately,” Steve said, shrugging – then, like it had just occurred to him, “Probably been overdoing it.”

“You think?” Seidman said, grinning. 

“Anyway,” Steve said, and stepped up onto the scale. “Shit,” he said, in real consternation, and put both hands on his gut, pushing it in, trying to peer over it at the numbers. “Uh... Romanov?”

Natasha put a steadying hand on his belly – a proprietary, casual hand that sent a thrill through Steve's body – and looked at the digital readout. For a moment, she was expressionless. Then she smiled, smug. “254.”

“Oof,” Steve said, and Barton let out a long, low whistle.

“What'd you say you were when you started working here?” Seidman said.

“190,” Steve said.

“Jesus christ,” Seidman said. “That's more than sixty pounds.”

“I guess it is,” Steve said, stepping heavily off the scale. He felt his belly quiver gently with the movement, and he cupped the fat lower curve of it, hefted it a little. “Does this look like sixty pounds?”

“Yes,” Barton said decisively.

“Yeah,” Steve sighed. “Feels like it, too. Can't even do a damn sit-up anymore without this thing getting in the way.”

This was entirely for Natasha, and he was rewarded by the sight of her cheeks flushing bright pink. 

“You've kept up your muscle, though,” Seidman said. “Been lifting heavier than ever.”

“That's true,” Steve said, and looked directly at Nat, at her small, lithe body. God, how he wanted to throw her around a little, manhandle her until she was begging _him_ to come. “Is it crazy that this conversation is making me hungry?”

“You're always hungry,” Seidman said, but patted him on the back. “C'mon, tubby, there's some spaghetti in the fridge.”

:::

“Six more pounds,” Natasha said the next day. “Six more pounds, and you can get new clothes.”

“Six more pounds and this shirt won't make it past my belly button,” Steve said. He was slouched on the couch, leaned way back with one hand draped over his full, aching tummy, t-shirt riding high on his plump hips and over the swell of fat on his lower back. Natasha held up another slice of pizza – his fourteenth – and he bit the point off, pressing his hand into the side of his gut. Nat was intent on watching him eat two medium pizzas in a row, and he was distinctly uncomfortable. 

“You've got another stretchmark,” she said, running her finger up the new pink line on his hip. 

“Not surprising,” Steve said. “That's what happens when you put on sixty pounds in a year.”

“Sixty-four pounds, in less than a year,” Natasha corrected, pressing more pizza past his lips. He chewed slowly, squirming a little on the couch, trying to get comfortable in his too-small clothes, but his belly felt so heavy and painfully swollen that there was no good position. He could feel the pinch of his sweatpants' waistband biting into his love handles, and his dick was half hard from the painful pressure and from Natasha's attention. He felt sorry for it – he had plans that it wasn't going to like. 

“Two pieces left, right?” Steve said. He could feel his chin double as he spoke, and he was thankful, again, for his beard.

“Right,” Nat said. “You feeling it?”

“Sure am,” Steve said, arching his back in a way he knew drove her crazy. “Fuck, this thing's getting big. Oof. So fuckin' heavy.”

“You're doing great,” Natasha praised him, and took the last two pieces of pizza and smacked them together, made a sort of sandwich and tapped his mouth with it. Steve ripped off a big bite, huffing a little as he chewed, and Nat had another bite ready for him as soon as he'd swallowed.

“Please, Nat,” he said thickly, speaking around his big mouthful, “please touch me.”

“Why?” she said, poking his belly. “Does this hurt? Did you pack yourself too tight?”

“Yes,” Steve said, chewing another bite. “Yes, it hurts.”

“You're getting too fat for your own skin,” she said, trailing her fingers along a smattering of stretchmarks on the side of his gut. “Do you feel all stretched out?”

“Yes,” Steve gasped, and she shoved the last bites of pizza into his mouth. 

“You've put on so much weight,” she murmured. “Just can't help yourself, can you? Can't control yourself, your appetite. My fat piggy.”

Steve had finished the pizza and was lying back, eyes half-closed, belly and chest heaving as he gulped air, and Natasha's hands kept up their steady, circular pressure on his tight gut. Eventually, they began to creep downward, and even in Steve's enormously stuffed state he managed to hold up his hand as Natasha began to tug at his sweatpants. “Too full,” he huffed. “Sorry, Nat. Too full to,” he sucked air, “fool around.”

“Really?” she said, disbelief clear in her voice. He'd never been too full to fool around, before – and he wasn't, now. In fact, he craved the feeling of her hand on his cock so much it was almost painful, and she noticed. “But you're all swollen and ready for me,” she said, reaching down for him. 

“Sorry,” he panted, determined to stick to his plan. “I'm just, too tired.”

He could see the frustration in her eyes, could see how turned-on she was, as anxious for release as he, but she smiled. “Okay,” she said, and began rubbing his stuffed gut, her palm moving in firm circles that felt so good he almost relented. “Okay,” she repeated. “You rest. You deserve it.”

He felt terrible. He felt horny. He felt fat. He grunted as he leaned back even deeper into the couch cushions, shifting his hips to rearrange his heavy belly, t-shirt hiking even further up the round swell of it. “Thanks for understanding,” he said, and closed his eyes. He was so full he knew he'd fall asleep quickly, which was good, because he didn't think he'd be able to hold out if he stayed awake. He was still hard, still aching for Natasha's touch, but she was aching for it, too, and that's how he wanted her. Straining like his too-tight skin. 

:::

The next morning, before Natasha could bring him breakfast, he said, “I've gotta run, honey, sorry. Got a bunch of errands to get done.”

“Errands?” Natasha said, pouting, and she walked her fingers up his soft bicep. “But you and I have errands, too. Pancake errands.”

“I wish I could,” Steve said, feeling guilty. “But the real world calls, you know?”

“Let me know if you want to get dinner later,” Nat said.

“Can't,” Steve said, with real regret, and he leaned in to kiss her. He didn't want her to feel slighted – just deprived. He made sure his belly brushed against her flat stomach as he caught her lips in his. “I'll see you at work tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay,” said Natasha, looking a little forlorn – not an expression he was used to seeing on her pretty face, and not one he liked having put there. But he was determined to see this little experiment to its end. 

By the time he got home his stomach was growling, so he bought a bagel and lox from his favorite neighborhood cafe and ate it sitting by the cafe window, drinking coffee and watching people walk by. He was still hungry when he'd finished, so he got another bagel and ate that one, too, and on his way home he ducked into a bakery to pick up a treat – a sticky bun or a croissant, he thought, but he ended up leaving with an entire pecan pie, his favorite kind and looking too good to resist.

He took a photo of it and texted it to Natasha, with the caption “Energy for my errands.”

He picked at the pie all through the morning, helping himself to a slice here, a slice there, and when lunchtime rolled around he went to the Jewish deli down the street and got a huge pastrami sandwich and a big bag of chips, which he carried out in a bag and went to eat at the little local park. He sent Natasha a photo of his lunch before he started eating. He polished off the chips and sandwich and sat for a while, getting a head start on digestion, then ambled over to the taco truck he'd been eyeing and put down a couple pork carnitas, which he ate standing up, feeling his belly pull at his sides and back, heavy and round. He sent Nat photos of the tacos, too. 

“Show me the damage!” she demanded, and he texted her a picture of his belly, settled thick and bloated out from the flaps of his unzippable jacket. 

Back at the apartment, he kept nibbling at the pie as he read a novel and did his laundry – every time he passed the tin he'd take a bite, until finally he just picked up the whole thing and settled on the couch with a fork and an episode of Antiques Roadshow, a pillow behind his back to take some of the pressure off. He worked his way through the remaining three fifths of the pie, and by the time the sun was setting, the tin was empty and he was practically pinned to the couch by the weight of his gut. 

He sent Natasha a side-angle selfie, where even he had to marvel at how round his belly looked, how big it was, sloping out dramatically from his pudgy pecs. She sent him back a photo of her own face, lips parted, eyes wide, looking wanton and aroused. Steve smiled and re-settled himself on the couch cushions with a grunt, dipped his head into the soft fat of his chin, and slept for a while. 

He awoke around eight o'clock and he struggled upright, stomach gurgling in sleepy protest as it shifted on his lap, then he leaned uncomfortably forward to reach his phone on the coffee table. His belly rounded up on his legs and made it hard for him to breathe, so he spread his legs as he leaned, trying to get some more room. He placed an order for delivery from a nearby hamburger place – got a couple bacon cheeseburgers, an order of onion rings, some seasoned fries, and chicken fingers, and as he waited for the food to come he hoisted himself up and padded into the kitchen for a beer. 

When the food came, he sat heavily back onto the couch and propped himself up on a stack of cushions to eat. He had to stop every so often to nudge his complaining belly, which was still tight from the pie, and it took him a while to get through everything. His tummy was swollen taut as a drum and aching when he'd set aside the last empty container, and he tried to get comfortable on the couch but couldn't – he was too breathless, stuffed, heavy and slow. Too fucking horny. 

He sent Nat a photo of the empty containers, and then rocked forward once or twice to heave himself to his feet, and took a photo standing, of the way his gut had shoved his t-shirt up and his swollen, heavy underbelly was beginning to drop with its own weight, striped with little red marks. 

Then he padded into the kitchen with grim determination and took out a pint of Cherry Garcia. He leaned his gut up against the counter to take some weight off, snapped a photo of the pint, and started spooning ice cream into his mouth. He could feel his chin doubling up beneath his beard as he chewed the cherries and chocolate, and he had to stop several times to catch his breath and pat the side of his strained stomach in order to shake up a few deep belches. He was sweating now and wheezing for breath, and he wiped his forehead on the shoulder of his t-shirt, kept spooning up big cold gobs of ice cream and swallowing them down. Finally, he scraped bottom, and he fell panting onto a kitchen chair, his stomach and chest heaving as he sucked in air, each breath painful as his packed stomach was forced to stretch. 

“Fuck,” he said aloud, to his empty kitchen. “Hoo boy. Wow. Full. Jesus.”

He managed to get his sweatpants down, and had to press his tummy back with one hand while he grabbed his cock with the other, scooted up to the edge of his chair so his belly had more room and he could spread his legs, fist his dick the way he liked. He could feel his tits jiggle as he began to stroke himself hard, and then, when his cock was fully erect and the head was pressing up into his fat, heavy belly, he snapped another selfie. 

“Can I come over?” was Nat's immediate answer, accompanied by a photo of her hand sliding into her panties. 

“Already finished,” Steve texted back, and he came to the thought of Natasha writhing on the bed with frustration, grinding against her own fingers and thinking of Steve. 

:::

The next day at work, he made a point of eating even more than he usually did publicly. It was a slow shift – they only answered one call, a kitchen fire at a local restaurant, and Steve spent the rest of the time aggressively snacking in Natasha's vicinity. When Natasha tried to escape him in the weight room, he followed her in, and made a show of trying to do a sit-up, grunting extravagantly before giving up and heading to the bench. 

At dinner, he stuffed himself with so much spaghetti and blueberry pie that Barton cut him off, saying, “I can't watch anymore, I'm doing this for your own good, buddy,” before taking away his plate – which was probably for the best, because Steve's belly was stretched so aching and tight and round that he felt faint from it. He slumped forward to let it sit more heavily on his thighs.

“Christ, I'm getting fat,” he murmured, so low that only Natasha could hear him.

“Steve Rogers, stop teasing me,” Nat hissed. “I'm going out of my mind.”

“Not teasing,” Steve protested. “Just so fucking full. Wish you could rub this gut for me. Ugh, can't believe I've let myself get so big.”

Natasha was practically squirming in her seat, and Steve hid a grin. 

When they got off work the next morning, Natasha took Steve out to breakfast even though they were both exhausted, and watched as he sleepily plowed his way through biscuits and gravy, eggs benedict, french toast and a chocolate milkshake. Then she ordered him a big slice of french silk pie and another milkshake, to punish him for teasing her all through work. He was hiccuping and belching and wincing by the time he'd finished, and she wasted no time dragging him back to his apartment and pushing him down onto his bed. Steve let her go to town on his belly, kissing it, rubbing it, getting herself worked up, but as soon as she began to ease his pants down, he stopped her.

“Sorry,” Steve huffed, cradling his poor stuffed tummy. “I can't, Nat. Too full.”

“You're joking,” she said, her hand on his rock-hard cock.

“I wish,” he groaned. 

“Okay,” she said, sitting back on her heels. “I think I know what's going on here.”

“Going on?” Steve said, giving her his most innocent face, though he was in a fair amount of discomfort and probably only succeeded in grimacing. 

“You're fucking with our dynamic,” she said. 

“I'm not --”

“You are,” she said calmly. “You're trying to manipulate me into submission, and I've gotta tell you, I don't appreciate it. This is a pretty backhanded way to negotiate our sex life, Steve.”

Steve opened his mouth, and then closed it. There wasn't much he could say to that, because of course, she was right – and suddenly he was horribly ashamed of himself. 

“I'm sorry,” he said, after a long silence. 

“What we do together – not just sex, but our whole relationship – is based on trust,” she said. “I've been completely up front with you. You know I don't like submitting. You knew that when we started dating. I've been nothing but honest with you, and I expected honesty in return. Instead I get tricks.”

“Nat, shit,” Steve said, trying to sit up a little straighter and look her in the eye. He hoisted himself up, huffing a little with the effort and from fullness. “I never meant to trick you,” he said. “I only wanted... I mean, I just thought...”

“You could have talked to me,” Nat said. “If you weren't happy with how things were going.”

“I am happy,” Steve protested, “it's not about that, it's – I guess I just – I only wanted --”

But to his horror, Nat was climbing to her feet. “Look,” she said. “Why don't you take some time alone, figure out what you want.”

“Nat, no!” Steve said. “Please, don't--”

“Call me when you've got your shit together,” she said, and closed his bedroom door behind her.

:::

Steve's impulse was to call Natasha immediately, to throw himself at her feet, to beg for her forgiveness, but he reined himself in. She was right on multiple levels: he _had_ been manipulative, and untrustworthy, and he did need to figure out what he wanted. Or at least, how to talk about it. 

He called in sick for the first time ever, and spent a full eight days alone, thinking – and eating. The former on purpose and the latter from anxiety and boredom and thwarted arousal. It was a vicious cycle – the fuller he got, the hornier he got, and the hornier he got, the hungrier he got. Nat had trained him well. He ate cheesecakes and pizzas and Chinese food and tacos and donuts; cereal and jars of peanut butter and cans of whipped cream and gallons of ice cream; hot dogs, milk, cheeseburgers, curry, mac and cheese... He ate himself sick, and then he ate some more. He barely moved from his couch, except to go to the bathroom and to answer the door when the delivery person came to deliver the materials for his binges, and when he did stand up he felt nauseous and swollen and dizzy with how full he was. He could feel himself getting fatter by the day, could feel his belly growing heavier in his lap, beginning to sag between his thighs when he spread them, could feel his face getting even pudgier, his pecs so pointed and soft they were like little tits under his obscenely too-small t-shirts. He couldn't even hike up his sweatpants over his fat ass and soft thighs, so he spent the days in his too-tight boxers, which bit into his legs and left painful red lines all around his hips and below his gut.

He felt completely out of control. 

He woke up the morning of the eighth day and realized he'd eaten himself out of all his clothes. Not one single thing he owned was fit for public, so he called in sick _again_ and sat at his kitchen table and slowly ate an entire chocolate cake. It wasn't the same, stuffing his face without Natasha there to boss him and praise him and touch him and feed him. He was wearing his painfully tight boxers and an unbuttoned flannel shirt and nothing else, too fat for any of his other clothes, and he looked down at his distended belly, smeared with chocolate from his fingers, sitting round and so, so heavy, swollen with food and with its own weight. He could barely lean over it to reach the table, he was so full. His fat chest quivered as he breathed. His fingers were getting pudgy. His knees were dimpled. His hips were swollen mounds that spilled ridiculously over his waistband and his back had two fat rolls he could feel squidging against the back of his chair. He'd put on so much weight that even his neck had a little roll in it, hidden by his beard. 

And he liked it.

He liked being so wildly out of control. Liked ceding all power to Natasha, and to his own growing body. He wouldn't trade this version of himself for who he had been a year ago, not for a million dollars. And yeah, he would have liked to've experimented a little, would have liked to take this new body on a test drive, see how it worked when he was the one in charge, but if Natasha didn't want that, then he didn't care. He wanted to submit to her, because he wanted her. 

He loved her. 

It took him hours to craft the perfect text message – hours debating back and forth about what to say, tying whole passionate paragraphs and then deleting them, but finally he settled on something simple.

A picture of his newly-ripped boxers and the caption, _Think I passed 260. Permission for new pants? I miss you._

Her answer was nearly instantaneous. _I'll be over after my shift._

:::

True to her word, Natasha showed up the next morning, with a box of muffins and danishes from Steve's favorite bakery.

“Jesus,” she said, when she saw his apartment, covered in the detritus of his eight days nonstop eating. Then, “Jesus!” again, when she took a good look at him. “That looks like it hurts.”

“Yeah,” Steve said, patting his aching belly gingerly. “Got a new stretchmark. Nat, I --”

“Wait,” she said, holding up a hand. “I've been doing some thinking of my own. And I'm still upset over how you handled the situation, but... I'm willing to discuss... trading. Trading roles.”

At Steve's flabbergasted look, she hastened to add, “I mean, not – not eating, I won't do that. But if you want to... take charge, a little, sometimes... we could try it.”

“What?” Steve said. “Why?”

“Because ultimately, I _do_ trust you,” she said, and her face went pink, the way it always did when she let herself be vulnerable. “I've never... I've never really been with someone I trust like I trust you. So I've never felt comfortable submitting. But with you... I mean, look, you've put a lot of faith in me. You've – you've gained a hell of a lot of weight for me, Steve. The least I can do is show you some of that same faith in return.”

“But I... I acted badly,” Steve said.

“Sure,” she said, shrugging. “But don't think you're going to get away with it.”

“I'm not?” Steve said. 

“No,” Natasha said, and came forward to heft his belly in her hands. “You're right about passing 260,” she said. “What've you been doing, eating nonstop since we last saw each other?”

“Yeah,” he said, and she smiled. 

“You can have new clothes,” she said. “But if you want to dom me... you have to gain thirty pounds.”

“What?” Steve yelped.

“That's your punishment,” she said. “You've already put on about 70 pounds. Let's make it an even hundred. Then you can have your way with me.”

“30 pounds,” Steve said. “Christ, I'm not going to be able to tie my shoes.”

“I'll tie them for you,” Natasha said, and stood on tiptoe to lean over his gut, pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “I'll always take care of you, Steve. If you want me to.”

“I love you, Nat,” he blurted out.

“Oh,” she said, turning even pinker. “Um. I – you. I mean. Me too. I love you.”

It was the first time Steve had seen her lose her cool, and he reached forward, pulled her tightly against his side so he could kiss her without his belly getting in the way. “100 pounds, here I come,” he said. 

“Let's start now,” she said.

:::

Those thirty pounds didn't go on without a fight.

When he wasn't working, Steve was mostly eating. He started eating as soon as he woke up – in fact, he often awoke to the feeling of Natasha poking something between his lips, usually a bite of cake or pie, and before he'd even opened his eyes fully he was chewing and swallowing and opening his mouth for more. He'd eat about a quarter of the cake while curled up in bed with her, washed down with a couple glasses of milk or even cream, and then he'd follow her into the kitchen for a big breakfast. 

After breakfast he'd stretch out on the couch for a belly rub and often a little something more, and when he and Natasha were both smiling and satisfied, he'd prop himself up on the cushions and she'd feed him cake until his tummy hurt too much to keep eating. They'd watch TV, or read side by side, Steve usually a little short of breath, hiccuping and belching as he worked through the morning's digestion, and as soon as he could take a deep breath without wincing, they ordered lunch. 

He'd put down a couple cheeseburgers and fries or a pizza, and then, if he could handle it, he'd eat a little more cake – sometimes off Natasha's naked body. Then he'd often conk out for a few hours, exhausted from fullness and the exertion of sex. When he woke up, they'd have dinner. After dinner, more cake. 

By that time his belly was always enormously bloated and throbbing, and he could barely make it from the couch to the bedroom, where he had to lie on his side to let his gurgling belly spread itself out on the mattress. He'd clutch his tummy and wheeze while Natasha spooned him from behind and carefully fed him candy – Hershey's kisses, bite-sized Snickers, Reese's Pieces – little, manageable things he barely even noticed eating. Nat would pause every so often to run her hands over his belly, and eventually one thing would lead to another and they'd hook up for a while, whatever Steve could manage. Sometimes Nat rode him while he lay below her, unable to do anything other than feebly buck his hips and belch, and sometimes she'd sit on his face and he'd exhaust his already tired mouth even further. Sometimes she'd just dry hump one of his fat thighs until she got off. When she blew him her head would bounce off his big belly, and when she gave him a handjob she had to push his gut up to get at his cock. Then, finally, they'd go to sleep – only for Natasha to wake Steve up in the middle of the night and get him to chug melted ice cream or finish off whatever cake he hadn't managed during the day. He'd wake up in the mornings still tender and bloated – and the cycle would start all over again. 

“Baby, you've got a little waddle,” Natasha said one afternoon, as Steve padded over to the couch after breakfast.

“No I don't,” Steve said, sitting heavily down with a thump.

“Yes, you do,” Nat said. “You're rocking side to side when you walk.”

“Just getting used to this thing,” Steve said, patting his belly. “Seriously fuckin' heavy. It kinda throws off my balance.”

“That, and your thighs are getting fat,” she said. 

He couldn't deny that. His ass was starting to hang off either ends of his chair when he sat down, and his spreading thighs forced his legs apart. His firm ball gut had finally started to sag, especially the fat lower curve of it, and it settled between his legs when he sat. 

“Look how fat your tits are,” Natasha said on a different day, cupping them with reverent hands. “I can see them jiggle when you walk.”

And, “Look at these rolls on your back! One, two, three...”

And, “Even thought you'd have a neck roll?”

Steve had packed on so much weight that he had to rock himself back and forth a few times before standing up from the couch. He couldn't tie his shoes without turning purple from lack of oxygen, and he had to spread his legs and let his belly sit between his fat thighs in order to wedge himself close enough to the table. He'd started sweating more no matter the temperature, but as winter faded into spring and spring into early summer he started carrying a handkerchief in his back pocket so he could mop his forehead. When he climbed stairs, his belly hit his knees and bounced so much he was breathless in minutes, though he was bench-pressing more than he ever had before and his arms had grown huge. 

He put on thirty pounds by June.

The night he hit 100 pounds gained, he threw Natasha over his shoulder and carried her into the bedroom, tossed her down onto the mattress. “Take off your clothes, nice and slow,” he said, and she knelt on the bed to do his bidding. T-shirt, bra, jeans, panties, and she was sitting gorgeous and naked before him, waiting. “Touch yourself,” Steve said, and after a moment's hesitation, she did, sliding her hand down and circling her own fingers around her clit. One of her hands came up to pinch her nipple. Steve waited until a flush had risen on her chest, and her lips were parted, eyes slitted in pleasurable concentration, and then he said, “Stop.”

Immediately she stopped. 

“Spread your legs wide for me,” he said, and she did. “Good girl,” he said. “God, look how beautiful you are.” He leaned over and pulled her until she was right at the edge of the bed, and then he sank to his knees on the floor and put her legs over his shoulders, her creamy thighs at his ears. He kissed her thighs, kissed her wet cunt, began lapping at her very slowly, very gently, until her hands were fisted in the blankets. He paused. “Do you want me to go faster?”

“Yes sir,” she gasped, and he did. He took her right up to the brink of her orgasm and then pulled away, her thighs clenching and the muscles of her stomach tensing over and over. She nearly screamed with frustration. 

“Ask me if you want to come,” Steve said.

“Please sir, please Steve, please, oh god, please let me come.”

“Only because you asked nicely,” Steve said. “And only because my knees are getting tired.” And he went back in. It took her seconds, and then she was wailing, gripping his hair in her hands, nearly squeezing his head off with her muscular thighs. Then she went completely boneless, the only sound her heavy breathing.

Steve was breathless, himself, and he hadn't been kidding about his knees. He managed, after a few false starts, to push himself to his feet, and he leaned over the bed and gathered her unresisting in his arms. He didn't have much of a lap anymore, so he contented himself with tucking her up against his side and kissing her swollen mouth. 

“Good girl,” he said, kissing her. “You're amazing, Nat. Thank you.”

“That's it?” she said. “That's what I've been scared of? A fucking phenomenal orgasm I barely had to work for? What, you're not going to tie me up or anything?”

“Oh, I am,” Steve said. “But first – you're going to feed me a couple pizzas. Naked. In bed.”

“Sir, yes sir,” Nat said.


End file.
